The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone  : 
He  can  not  chuse  but  hear. 


COLERIDGE. 


The  Ancient  Mariner,  page  2. 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 


A- 


With  Memoir  and  Nofes* 


COMPLETE  EDITION. 


1  LLUS  TRA  TED. 


NEW  YORK: 

THE   AMERICAN   NEWS   COMPANY, 
39  AND  41  CHAMBERS  STREET. 


PEEFACK* 


COMPOSITIONS  resembling  those  of  the  present  volume 
are  not  unfrequently  condemned  for  their  querulous  Ego- 
tism. But  Egotism  is  to  be  condemned  then  only  when 
it  offends  against  Time  and  Place,  as  in  an  History  or  an 
Epic  Poem.  To  censure  it  in  a  Monody  or  Sonnet  is 
almost  as  absurd  as  to  dislike  a  circle  for  being  round. 
Why  then  write  Sonnets  or  Monodies?  Because  they 
give  me  pleasure  when  perhaps  nothing  else  could.  After 
the  more  violent  emotions  of  sorrow,  the  mind  demands 
amusement,  and  can  find  it  in  employment  alone;  but 
full  of  its  late  sufferings,  it  can  endure  no  employment 
not  in  some  measure  connected  with  them.  Forcibly  to 
turn  away  our  attention  to  general  subjects  is  a  painful 
and  most  often  an  unavailing  effort. 

"  But  O !  how  grateful  to  a  wounded  heart 
The  tale  of  Misery  to  impart — 
From  others'  eyes  bid  artless  sorrows  flow, 
And  raise  esteem  upon  the  base  of  Woe!" — SHAW. 

The  communicativeness  of  our  Nature  leads  us  to  describe 
our  own  sorrows;  in  the  endeavour  to  describe  them,  in- 
tellectual activity  is  exerted;  and  from  intellectual  ac- 
tivity there  results  a  pleasure,  which  is  gradually  asso- 
ciated, and  mingles  as  a  corrective,  with  the  painful 
subject  of  the  description.  "  True !"  (it  may  be  answered) 
"  but  how  are  the  PUBLIC  interested  in  your  Sorrows  or 
your  Description  ?"  We  are  for  ever  attributing  personal 
Unities  to  imaginary  Aggregates.  What  is  the  PUBLIC, 
but  a  term  for  a  number  of  scattered  individuals?  Of 
whom  as  many  will  be  interested  in  these  sorrows,  as  have 
experienced  the  same  or  similar. 

"Holy  be  the  lay 
Which  mourning  soothes  the  mourner  on  his  way." 

If  I  conid  judge  of  others  by  myself,  I  should  not  hesitate 
to  affirm,  that  the  most  interesting  passagevS  are  those  in 
which  the  Author  developes  his  own  feelings  ?  The  sweet 
voice  of  Conat  never  sounds  so  sweetly,  as  when  it 
speaks  of  itself;  and  I  should  almost  suspect  that  man  of 

*  To  the  First  and  Second  .Editions.  t  Ossian, 


ad  Second  Editions. 

MQ3177 


iv 


PREFACE. 


an  unkindly  heart,  who  could  read  the  opening  of  the 
third  book  of  the  Paradise  Lost  without  peculiar  emotion. 
By  a  Law  of  our  Nature,  he,  who  labours  under  a  strong 
feeling,  is  impelled  to  seek  for  sympathy;  but  a  Poet's 
feelings  are  all  strong.  Quicquid  amet  valde  amat.  Aken- 
side  therefore  speaks  with  philosophical  accuracy  when 
he  classes  Love  and  Poetry,  as  producing  the  same  effects: 

"  Love  and  the  wish  of  Poets  when  their  tongue 
Would  teach  to  others'  bosoms,  what  so  charms 
Their  own."  Pleasures  of  Imagination. 

There  is  one  species  of  Egotism  which  is  truly  disgust- 
ing ;  not  that  which  leads  us  to  communicate  our  feelings 
to  others,  but  that  which  would  reduce  the  feelings  of 
others  to  an  identity  with  our  own.  The  Atheist,  who 
exclaims,  "pshaw!"  when  he  glances  his  eye  on  the 
praises  of  Deity,  is  an  Egotist:  an  old  man,  when  he 
speaks  contemptuously  of  Love- verses,  is  an  Egotist:  and 
the  sleek  Favourites  of  Fortune  are  Egotists,  when  they 
condemn  all  "  melancholy,  discontented "  verses.  Surely, 
it  would  be  candid  not  merely  to  ask  whether  the  poem 
pleases  ourselves,  but  to  consider  whether  or  no  there  may 
not  be  others,  to  whom  it  is  well  calculated  to  give  an 
innocent  pleasure. 

I  shall  only  add,  that  each  of  my  readers  will,  I  hope, 
remember,  that  these  Poems  on  various  subjects,  which 
he  reads  at  one  time  and  under  the  influence  of  one  set  of 
feelings,  were  written  at  different  times  and  prompted  by 
very  different  feelings;  and  therefore  that  the  supposed 
inferiority  of  one  Poem  to  another  may  sometimes  be 
owing  to  the  temper  of  mind,  iu  which  he  happens  to 
peruse  it. 


MY  poems  have  been  rightly  charged  with  a  profusion 
of  double-epithets,  and  a  general  turgidness.  I  have 
pruned  the  double-epithets  with  no  sparing  hand;  and 
used  my  best  efforts  to  tame  the  swell  and  glitter  both  of 
thought  and  diction.  This  latter  fault  however  had  in- 
sinuated itself  into  my  Religious  Musings  with  such  in- 
tricacy of  union,  that  sometimes  I  have  omitted  to  disen- 
tangle the  weed  from  the  fear  of  snapping  the  flower.  A 
third  and  heavier  accusation  has  been  brought  against 
me,  that  of  obscurity;  but  not,  I  think,  with  equal  justice. 
An  Author  is  obscure,  when  his  conceptions  are  dim  and 
imperfect,  and  his  language  incorrect,  or  unappropriate, 
or  involved.  A  poem  that  abounds  in  allusions,  like  the 
Bard  of  Gray,  or  one  that  impersonates  high  and  abstract 
truths,  like  Collins's  Ode  on  the  poetical  character,  claims 
not  to  be  popular— but  should  be  acquitted  of  obscurity. 
The  deficiency  is  in  the  Reader.  But  this  is  a  charge 
which  every  poet,  whose  imagination  is  warm  and  rapid, 


•*- 


PREFACE.  v 

must  expect  from  his  contemporaries.  Milton  did  not 
escape  it;  and  it  was  adduced  with  virulence  against 
Gray  and  Collins.  We  now  Lear  no  more  of  it:  not  that 
their  poems  are  better  understood  at  present,  than  they 
were  at  their  first  publication ;  but  their  fame  is  estab- 
lished; and  a  critic  would  accuse  himself  of  frigidity  or 
inattention,  who  should  profess  not  to  understand  them. 
But  a  living  writer  is  yet  sub  judice;  and  if  we  cannot 
follow  his  conceptions  or  enter  into  his  feelings,  it  is  more 
consoling  to  our  pride  to  consider  him  as  lost  beneath,  than 
as  soaring  above  us.  If  any  man  expect  from  my  poems 
the  same  easiness  of  style  which  he  admires  in  a  drinking- 
song,  for  him  I  have  not  written.  Intelligibilia,  non  in- 
tellectum  adfero. 

I  expect  neither  profit  or  general  fame  by  my  writings ; 
andl  consider  myself  as  having  been  amply  repaid  without 
either.  Poetry  has  been  to  me  its  own  "exceeding  great 
reward:"  it  has  soothed  my  afflictions;  it  has  multiplied 
and  refined  my  enjoyments;  it  has  endeared  solitude;  and 
it  has  given  me  the  habit  of  wishing  to  discover  the  Good 
and  the  Beautiful  in  all  that  meets  and  surrounds  me. 

S.  T.  C. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOK  COLEEIDGE. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  was  born  at  Ottery  St. 
Mary,  Devonshire,  on  the  21st  October,  1772.  His  father 
was  a  clergyman  of  amiable  character  and  simple  habits, 
settled  as  vicar  of  that  parish.  Here  he  continued  many 
years,  a  constant  student  forgetful  not  only  of  the  distant 
world  but  of  ±he  things  about  him ;  and  here  his  wife 
died,  leaving  three  daughters,  children,  to  whom  he  gave 
a  second  mother  by  marrying  Anne  Bowdon,  who  seems 
to  have  been  all  that  second  marriages  require.  Besides, 
she  quickly  increased  the  number  of  the  vicarage  house- 
hold, and  the  last  of  her  ten  children  appearing  year  by 
year,  was  the  poet. 

Samuel's  recollections  of  Ottery  St.  Mary  and  of  his 
father  were  vivid,  although  the  Rev.  John  Coleridge,  died 
before  his  son  completed  his  seventh  year,  at  which  time 
the  family  must  have  left  the  place.  Before  he  was  nine 
his  mother  died  also,  and  as  the  living  was  not  a  very 
rich  one,  and  Anne  Bowdon  had  only  added  to  the  vicar's 
riches  in  another  direction,  the  orphan  family  were  in 
some  difficulties,  which  friends  mitigated  by  getting  the 
youngest  into  the  Blue-coat  school  in  London  a  year  after. 

Unaccustomed  to  many  luxuries,  easily  contented,  and 
absent-minded,  like  his  father,  even  from  childhood,  his 
life  at  Christ's  Hospital  during  the  nine  years  spent  there 
was  rendered  harder  by  the  habits  of  the  school  and  the 
character  of  the  head  master,  of  whom  Charles  Lamb, 
then  also  wearing  the  yellow  stockings,  has  left  a  vivid 
and  alarming  picture. 

Coleridge  was  eighteen  and  a  half  when  he  was  entered 
at  Jesus  College,  Cambridge,  not  a  very  strong  or  active 
youth,  having  just  before  been  attacked  by  illness;  not 


viii  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

a  premature  genius  either,  leaving  next  to  no  hidden 
treasures  of  verse  among  his  papers ;  nor  yet  likely  to  be 
first  in  classics,  although  his  previous  attainments  en- 
abled him  to  take  a  prize  for  a  Greek  ode.  Worldly  wis- 
dom we  must  not  expect,  so  he  immediately  got  into  trouble 
on  account  of  the  price  of  the  furniture  he  took  over  with 
his  rooms.  During  the  following  year  some  other  agita- 
tions were  added,  though  he  was  then,  and  always,  moral- 
ly innocent ;  but  suddenly  he  was  missed,  and  for  some 
time  entirely  lost  sight  of.  This  episode  in  his  career 
used  to  aflbrd  his  friends  in  later  life  the  nearest  approach 
to  humour  it  was  possible  to  indulge  in  conversation  with 
Coleridge :  he  had  always  too  much  weight  on  his  mind, 
too  many  besetting  ideas,  and  too  much  seriousness  to 
allow  any  moments  of  chaff  or  raillery.  He  made  no  secret 
of  it,  but  never  explained  the  mystery.  What  is  very 
certain  is  that  he  had  no  money  to  keep  himself  with, 
and  that  he  enlisted  immediately  in  the  15th  Light  Dra- 
goons, and  distinguished  himself  by  the  extreme  difficulty 
they  experienced  in  training  him.  This  was  at  the  begin- 
ning of  December  1793,  when  he  was  just  turned  twenty- 
one.  Private  Comberback,  the  apt  name  he  chose  for  him- 
self, never  got  out  of  the  drill  sergeant's  hands,  and  was 
sent  down  to  the  depot  at  Reading,  where  it  is  said  he 
was  recognised.  If  this  was  the  case  nothing  came  out 
of  the  recognition ;  the  history  of  his  getting  out  of  the 
scrape  is  said  to  be  this,  he  wrote  some  Greek  on  his 
saddle,  which  an  officer  saw  and  questioned  him  re- 
garding. Perhaps  he  was  tired  of  the  drudgery,  at  all 
events  he  told  the  truth,  and  his  friends  captured  him, 
got  his  discharge,  and  ensured  his  return  to  his  rooms 
at  Jesus  College,  so  that  he  was  not  altogether  half  a 
year  a  soldier. 

Soon  after  he  left  Cambridge  for  altogether,  without  of 
course  taking  any  degree,  or  having  any  definite  views 
of  a  professional  kind.  These  indeed  never  took  a  prac- 
tical shape  all  through  life;  he  might  at  any  moment 
have  surprised  his  most  intimate  friends  by  a  determina- 
tion never  before  dreamt  of  by  them,  and  even  when  he 
became  acquainted  with  Southey  at  Bristol,  and  with  the 
set  of  verse-writing  and  speculating  men  about  him,  and 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  xi 

Much  more  important,  ami  much  more  intimately  con- 
nected with  his  poetry,  its  motiveless  and  fragmentary 
character  in  some  of  its  finest  manifestations,  and  with  ii.s' 
cessation,  is  his  habit  of  opium-eating.  In  the  prefatory 
note  to  Kubla  Klian  he  says,  "  In  the  summer  of  the  year 
1797,  the  author,  then  in  ill  health,  had  retired  to  a  lonely 
farm-house  between  Porlock  and  Linton,  on  the  Exmoor 
confines  of  Somerset  and  Devonshire.  In  consequence  of 
a  slight  indisposition,  an  anodyne  had  been  prescribed, 
from  the  effects  of  which  he  fell  asleep  in  his  chair  at  the 
moment  that  he  was  reading  in  Purchas'  Pilgrimage, — '.Here 
the  Khan  Kubla  commanded  a  palace  to  be  built,  &c.' 
The  author  continued  about  three  hours  in  tins  sleep,  at 
least  of  the  external  sense,  during  which  time  he  com- 
posed between  two  and  three  hundred  lines,  if  that  can 
be  called  composition  in  which  all  the  images  rose  up 
before  him  as  things,  with  a  parallel  production  of  the 
corresponding  expressions  without  any  sensation  of  con- 
sciousness of  effort."  This  is  the  earliest  record  of  the 
disposition  to  be  ecstatically  affected  by  the  use  of  seda- 
tive stimulants.  The  experience  once  indulged  in,  be- 
came an  absorbing  passion,  breaking  down  every  barrier, 
rending  in  pieces  all  his  efforts,  and  for  many  years  he 
lived  far  away  from  all  his  solid  interests,  in  a  dreamland 
of  his  own,  peopled  by  beautiful  ephemera. 

In  1801  we  find  Coleridge  living  in  Cumberland,  at 
Keswick,  attracted  thither  by  Southey  ;  Wordsworth  also 
having  by  this  time  settled  down  not  far  off  at  Grasmere. 
By  this  time  he  had  translated  Wallenstein,  making  a 
very  able  translation  of  these  noblest  of  tragedies,  the 
first  part,  called  "  Wallenstein's  Camp,"  he  omitted.  It 
was  issued  by  arrangement  at  the  same  time  as  Schiller's 
original  in  Germany;  but  like  everything  else  by  Cole- 
ridge had  very  little  immediate  sale.  He  had  also  begun 
writing  both  literary  and  political  articles  for  London 
papers,  an  employment  he  continued  irregularly,  espe- 
cially for  the  Conner,  till  1814.  By  his  time,  too,  he  had 
begun  regular  opium  eating.  "Wretched  delusion!''  he 
writes;  "but  I  owe  it  in  justice  to  myself  to  declare, 
before  God,  that  this,  the  curse  and  slavery  of  my  life, 
did  not  commence  in  any  low  craving  for  sensation,  in 


xii  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

any  desire  or  wish  to  stimulate  or  exhilarate  myself, — in 
fact  my  nervous  spirits  and  my  mental  activity  were  such 
as  never  required  it, — but  wholly  in  rashness,  delusion, 
and  presumptuous  quackery,  and  afterwards  in  pure 
terror." 

I  have  said  no  work  by  Coleridge,  poem  or  treatise,  ever 
sold  to  any  considerable  extent  when  first  published. 
Some  of  his  most  excellent  works,  TJie  Friend  for  instance, 
was  a  serious  loss  to  him,  a  very  serious  one  in  his  mone- 
tary position  at  the  time.  It  was  issued  periodically,  be- 
ginning in  June,  1809,  when  he  was  living  a  short  time 
with  Wordsworth,  having  been  absent  from  the  lake 
country,  and  from  England,  too,  for  a  year,  and  when 
shortly  after  that  date  he  left  Cumberland,  he  never  re- 
turned. His  wife,  however,  remained  with  the  three 
children :  Derwent,  afterwards  in  orders  in  the  Church, 
Sara,  his  daughter  whom  he  dearly  loved,  and  Hartley, 
in  whose  genius  he  wholly  believed.  The  presence  of  her 
sister,  Mrs.  Southey,  and  other  interests  kept  her  there, 
and  her  husband's  constant  failure  as  an  author  dis- 
couraged household  expenses.  His  last  year  abroad  was 
a  visit  to  Malta  for  his  health,  during  which  he  fell  into 
a  lucrative  appointment,  officiating  as  secretary  to  the 
Governor,  Sir  Alexander  Ball,  whom  he  highly  esteemed. 

On  the  failure  of  The  Friend  he  returned  to  London, 
living  with  dear  friends,  who  were  honoured  by  his 
society,  Mr.  Basil  Montague  and  others,  by  no  means 
disinclined  to  use  his  pen  or  to  lecture,  which  he  did  at 
the  Royal  Institution  and  in  connection  with  the  London 
Philosophical  Society,  and  sending  on  his  earnings  to  his 
well-beloved  family  at  Keswick.  His  drama  JRcmorxe, 
written  fifteen  years  before,  was  also  now  acted  at  Drury 
Lane  with  fair  success,  not  enough,  however,  to  cause  the 
acceptance  of  Zapolya,  which  he  now  produced.  He  then 
also  arranged  the  poems,  which  are  called  Sibylline  Leaves, 
and  the  reader  may  be  surprised  to  learn  that  Chnstabcl 
was  now  first  published,  so  that  his  poetic  standing  had 
been  hitherto  dependent  on  The  Ancient  Mariner  alone,  pub- 
lished long  ago  in  Wordsworth's  Lyrical  Ballads,  and 
some  minor  pieces  here  and  there  published !  This  fact  is 
the  most  astounding  in  the  history  of  the  poet;  it  is  true 


SAMUEL  TAYLOB  COLEKIDGE.  xiii 

The  Ancient  Mariner  is  alone  of  his  highest  lyrical  crea- 
tions, a  finished  work,  but  to  keep  his  poerns  in  his  desk 
all  through  his  struggling  manhood,  and  yet  to  have 
taken  the  position  he  did,  is  truly  surprising.  The  Sibyl- 
line Leaves  with  Christabel,  &c.,  were  published  in  1816, 
a  complete  edition  of  his  poems  not  till  1828,  but  a  few- 
years  before  his  death.  With  respect  to  the  publication 
of  The  Ancient  Mariner,  too,  there  was  an  inconsequent 
and  incidental  character,  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  being  pro- 
duced, as  their  long  Preface  set  forth  in  the  wordiest 
manner,  to  bring  poetry  back  to  common  life,  and  by  the 
ballad  treatment  again  interest  people  in  their  actual 
surroundings  Nothing  further  from  this  field  can  be 
imagined  than  the  poem  Coleridge  contributed  to  Words- 
worth's volume.  He  has,  indeed,  given  us  an  explana- 
tion of  the  difference,  by  saying  the  first  conception  of 
the  volume  was  that  it  should  consist  of  tico  classes  of 
poems,  one  relating  to  ordinary  life,  the  other  to  super- 
natural incidents  treated  naturally,  but  nothing  of  this 
appears  in  Wordsworth's  argument,  and  the  poem  slood 
alone  in  the  book. 

Indeed  the  morality  of  the  narrative— the  enormity  of 
the  punishment  for  the  death  of  the  albatross,— seems  to 
disconnect  the  poem  from  reality,  as  in  no  age,  nor  under 
any  law,  religious,  moral,  or  civil,  has  it  ever  been  sup- 
posed that  such  a  revenge  was  just.  Even  in  a  dramatic 
point  of  view,  and  as  a  work  of  art,  this  has  been  felt 
as  a  serious  defect  in  the  invention  of  The  Ancient  Manner. 
But  this,  it  appears  to  me,  is  a  misconception.  It  is  the 
"Lonesome  Spirit  of  tho  South  Pole"  and  his  "fellow 
demons  "  who  bring  about  the  fearful  punishment  of  the 
Mariner  and  the  crew.  "They  were  the  first  who  ever 
burst  into  that  silent  sea,"  and  the  elemental  spirits  were 
furiously  opposed  to  their  inroad,  and  especially 

"  The  Spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow." 

He  it  is,  and  the  other  unknown,  spirits  who  work  the 
mischief  and  carry  the  ship  violently  back  to  the  Line, 


xiv  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

only  in  the  mind  of  the  Mariner,  the  punishment  assumes 
the  character  of  a  penance  imposed  by  providence.  He 
thinks  the  punishment  just;  he  is,  in  truth,  mad,  for 
Death  and  Life-in-Death  have  thrown  the  dice  for  him, 
and  Life-in-Death,  who  is  the  Demon  of  Madness,  has 
•  gained  the  throw. 

The  house  of  the  good  surgeon,  Mr.  Gilman,  at  High- 
gate,  was  one  of  those  rather  large-looking  houses  with 
trees  quite  as  old  as  themselves  in  front  of  them,  in  the 
open  space,  opposite  the  gate  to  the  church.  To  this 
family  he  was  introduced  in  1815  as  an  inmate  to  be 
looked  upon  as  an  invalid,  and  truly  he  found  himself  in 
the  hands  of  the  Good  Samaritan,  and  never  left  him 
again,  but  continued  for  the  long  weary  period  of  nineteen 
years,  resigning  opium,  but  still  in  many  ways  an  invalid, 
and  visited  by  many  admiriug  friends  who  listened  to  his 
monologues  with  wonder  and  delight.  In  1825  the  Royal 
Society  of  Literature  came  to  his  aid,  with  a  pension  of 
£105,  which  he  only  enjoyed  for  five  years,  George  IV., 
from  whose  private  purse  it  came,  dying  in  1830. 

For  some  years  at  last  he  was  nearly  confined  to  the 
sick-room.  He  died  on  the  25th  July,  1834,  in  the  GJnd 
year  of  his  age.  Let  me  finish  by  transcribing  some  por- 
tion of  the  inscription  on  the  marble  tablet  to  his  memory 
in  Highgate  New  Church : 

"  His  disposition  was  unalterably  sweet  ard  angelic. 
He  was  an  ever-enduring,  ever-loving  friend: 

The  gentlest  and  kindest  teacher, 

The  most  engaging  home-companion. 

Here  &n  this  monumental  stone  thy  friends  inscribe  thy  worth. 

Reader!  for  the  world  mourn, 

A  light  has  passed  away  from  the  earth : 

But  for  this  pious  and  exalted  Christian, 

Rejoice,  and  again  I  say  unto  you,  rejoice!" 


CONTENTS. 


/  PACIS 

•MThe  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner, 1 

— Christabel, 18 

-rKubla  Khan;  or,  a  Vision  in  a  dream, 33 

—  The  Pains  of  Sleep, 35 

-Love, 36 


J 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 

Genevieve, 39 

Monody  on  the  Death  of  Chatterton, C9  / 

Sonnet  to  the  Autumnal  Moon, 42 

Time,  Real  and  Imaginary, 43 

Songs  of  the  Pixies, 43 

The  Raven, 46 

Absence,  a  Farewell  Ode, 47 

Written  in  Early  Youth,   . 48 

The  Kiss,        .  50 

•'The  Rose, ,51 

To  a  Young  Ass, 51 

The  Sigh, 52 

Domestic  Peace,    .........  53 

Lines  Written  at  the  King's-Arm,  Ross,          .        .        .        .53 

Lines  to  a  Beautiful  Spring  in  a  Village,    ....  53 

\X*Lines  on  a  Friend,     .        .        . 54 

Lines  composed  while  climbing  Brockley  Coomb,     .        .  55 

To  a  Young  Lady,  with  a  Poem  on  the  French  Revolution,  56 

Sonnet  I-.t^My  Heart  has  thanked  thee,  Bowles,"     .        .  57 

—  II.  "As  late  I  lay  in  Slumber's  Shadowy  Vale,"         .  57 

—  III.  "  Though  roused  by  that  dark  Vizir  Riot  Rude,"  58 

—  IV.  "  When  British  Freedom  for  an  Happier  Land,"  .  58 

—  V.  "It  was  some  Spirit,  Sheridan!"         ...  58 

—  VI.  "0  what  a  loud  and  fearful  Shriek  was  there,"    .  59 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Sonnet  VII.   '  As  when  far-off  the  warbled  Strains  are  heard, ' '  59 

—  VIII.   'Thou  gentle  look," 59 

—  IX.    'Pale  Roamer  through  the  Night!"  ...    60 

X.    '  Sweet  Mercy!  how  my  very  Heart  has  bled/'    «0 

—  XL    Thou  bleedest,my  poor  Heart!  and  thy  Distress,' '60 

—  XII.    'To  the  author  of  the  Robbers,"    ...         61 

Epitaph  on  an  Infant, 61 

Lines  in  the  manner  of  Spenser,          .....         61 

w»-^  Imitated  from  Ossian, -63 

The  Complaint  of  Ninathoma, 63 

To  an  Infant, 63 

Imitated  from  the  Welsh, 64 

Lines  in  Answer  to  a  Letter  from  Bristol,       ....  64 

Lines  to  a  Friend  in  Answer  to  a  melancholy  Letter,         .  67 

^Religious  Musings,    .                        67 

Destiny  of  Nations,  a  Vision,  77 


SIBYLLIN3  LEAVES. 
I. — POEMS  OCCASIONED   BY   POLITICAL  EVENTS  OR  FEELINGS 

CONNECTED   WITH  THEM. 

Ode  to  the  Departing  Year, 88 

e,  an  Ode, <J2 

'-iTears  in  Solitude, 94 

Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter, 99 

Recantation, 109 

II.— LOVE  POEMS. 

^Introduction  to  the  Tale  of  the  Dark  Ladie,       .        .        .       Ill 
,  or  the  Circassian  Love-Chaunt,  .        .        .        .113 

The  Picture,  or  the  Lover's  Resolution      .        .        .        .       114 
The  Night-Scene,  a  Dramatic  Fragment,        .        .        .        .118 

To  an  Unfortunate  Woman, 130 

To  an  Unfortunate  Woman  at  the  Theatre,    ....  121 
Lines  composed  in  a  Concert-Room,   .        .        .        .  132 

The  Keepsake, 133 

To  a  Young  Lady  on  her  Recovery  from  a  Fever,      .        .       134 
To  a  Lady,  with  Falconer's  "  Shipwreck,"     .  .        .124 

Home-Sick:  written  in  Germany, 125 

Something  Childish,  but  very  Natural, 126 


CONTENTS.  xvii 

PAGE 

Answer  to  a  Child's  Question, 133 

The  Visionary  Hope, 130 

The  Happy  Husband,    .        . 137 

On  Re-visiting  the  Sea-Shore, 138 

Recollections  of  Love, 138 

The  Composition  of  a  Kiss, 139 

III. — MEDITATIVE  POEMS,  IN  BLANK  VERSE. 

Hymn  before  Sun-rise,  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouny,  .  .  130 
Lines  written  in  the  Album  at  Elbingerode,  in  the  Hartz 

Forest, 133 

EolianHarp, 133 

On  observing  a  Blossom  on  the  First  of  February,        .        .  134 
I/Reflections  on  having  left  a  Place  of  Retirement,      .        .       135 

To  the  Rev.  George  Coleridge, 137 

Inscription  for  a  Fountain  on  a  Heath,       ....       138 

A  Tombless  Epitaph, 139 

is  Lime-Tree  Bower  my  Prison, 140 

To  a  Friend  who  had  declared  his  Intention  of  writing  no 

more  Poetry,    .  141 

a  Gentleman  (W.  Wordsworth)  composed  on  V\c  Nig' it- 
after  his  Recitation  of  a  Poem  on  the  Growth  of  an 

Individual  Mind, 142 

Nightingale:  a  conversation  poem,          .        .        .        .115 
at  Midnight, 148 

IV.— ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

-The  Three  Graves, 149 

^Dejection:  an  Ode, .  158 

Ode  to  Georgiana,  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  ....  161 

Ode  to  Tranquillity, 163 

To  a  Young  Friend,  on  his  proposing  to  domesticate  with 

the  Author, 164 

Lines  to  W.  L.  Esq.,  while  he  sang  a  Song  to*Purcell's 

Music, 165 

Addressed  to  a  Young  Man  of  Fortune,  .  .  .  .166 
Sonnet  to  the  River  Otter, -  166 


—  to  a  Friend,  .........  166 

—  composed  on  a  Journey  homeward  after  hearing  of 
the  Birth  of  a  Son,      .......       167 

Epitaph  on  an  Infant,       ........  167 

The  Virgin's  Cradle-Hymn,          ......       168 


A 


xviii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Tell's  Birth-Place, 108 

I/ Melancholy,  a  Fragment, 189 

A  Christmas  Carol, 163 

Human  Life, 171 

The  Visit  of  the  Gods, 171 

Elegy,  imitated  from  Akenside, •    .  1 72 


PROSE  IN  RHYME: 
OR,  EPIGRAMS,  MORALITIES,  AND  THINGS  WITHOUT  A   %"  VME. 

Duty  surviving  Self-Love, .173 

Song, 173 

Phantom  or  Fact?  a  Dialogue  in  Verse,         .        .        .        .174 

_._JKork_without  Hope, 174 

Youth  and  Age, 175 

A  Day  Dream,       .........       175 

Lines  suggested  by  the  Last  Words  of  Berengarius,      .        .  176 
To  a  Lady,  offended  by  a  sportive  Observation,        .        .       177 

-The  Devil's  Thoughts, 178 

The  Alienated  Mistress, 179 

Constancy  to  an  Ideal  Object, 179 

The  Suicide's  Argument, 180 

The  Blossoming  of  the  Solitary  Date-Tree,    .        .        .        .181 

Fancy  in  Nubibus, 183 

The  Two  Founts, 183 

The  Wanderings  of  Cain, 184 


Remorse,  a  Tragedy, 1!»0 

Appendix, :.:r> 

The  Fall  of  Robespierre, ;.':« 

The  Piccolomini,  or  the  First  Part  of  Wallenstein,    .        .  256 

The  Death  of  Wallenstein,  .  354 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


THE 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

IN  SEVEN  PARTS. 

Facile  credo,  plures  esse  Naturas  invisibles  quam  visibiles  in  rerum 
universitate.  Sed  horum  omnium  familiam  quis  nobis  enarrabit? 
et  gradus  et  cognationes  et  discrimina  et  singulorum  munera? 
Quid  agunt  ?  qua*  loca  habitant?  Harum  rerum  notitiam  semper 
ambivit  ingenium  humanum,  nunquam  attigit.  Juvat,  interea,  non 
difflteor,  quandoque  in  animo,  tanquam  in  Tabula,  majorisetmelioris 
mundiimaginemcontemplari:  ne  inens  assuefacta  hodiernae  vitae 
minutiis  se  contrahat  nimis,  et  totasubsidat  inpusillascogitationes. 
Sed  veritati  interea  invigilandum  est,  modusque  servandus,  ut  certa 
ab  incertis,  diem  a  nocte,  distinguamus. 

T.  BURNET:  ARCILEOL.  PHIL.  p.  68. 


PART  THE  FIRST. 

IT  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

And  lie  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

"  By  tby  long  grey  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

"Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

"  The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
"  And  I  aui  next  of  kin : 
"The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set; 
"May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
"There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 
"  Hold  off!  unhand  me,  grey-beard  loon!" 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three  years  child: 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 


An  ancient 
Mariner 
meeteth 
three  Gal- 
lants bidden 
to  a  wedding- 
feast,  and  de- 
taineth  one. 


The  Wed- 
ding-Guest is 
spell  bound 
by  the  eye  of 
the  old  sea- 


2  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

faring  man,  The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone  : 
Trained'  to      He  cannot  chuse  but  hear; 
hearts  tale.  And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

The  ship  was  cheered,  tlie  harbour  cleared, 
Merrily  did  we  drop 
*,   .'•  *]&ii>\v  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 
,the  light-house  top. 


The.  Mariner  Th3  Sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 

shfe  saUed      Oat  o/.^he  sea  came  he  ! 

southward      And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 

with  a  good    Went  down  into  the  sea. 

wind  and  fair 

tt  reached*     Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

the  line.          Till  over  the  mast  at  noon  — 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  Wed-       The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 

taSfrththe    Red  as  a  r()8e  is  she  '•> 

bridal  music;  Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 

but  the  Mar-  The  merry  minstrelsy. 

iner  contin- 

ueth  his  tale.  ^  We(lding_Guest  Lo  beat  fc^  breast, 

Yet  he  cannot  chuse  but  hear  ; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

The  ship        ^nd  now  the  STORM-BLAST  came,  and  ho 
iSSMUfl  Waa  tyrannous  and  strong  : 
the  south        He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 
pole.  And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe 

And  forward  tends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  hlast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  : 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 
The  land  of 

fearful  And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 

sounds,  where  Did  senti  a  dismal  sheen: 
JV?:™  ™?     r-v  Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken  — 
boSeen  The  ice  was  all  between. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around: 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 

Like  noises  in  a  swound ! 

At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross : 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through ! 

And  a  good  south-wind  sprung  up  behind ; 

The  Albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo ! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmered  the  white  Moon-shine. 

[w  God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner ! 


Till  a  great 
sea-bird, 
called  the 
Albatross, 
came 

through  the 
snow-fog, 
and  was  re- 
ceived with 
great  joy  and 
hospitality. 


And  lo!  the 
Albatross 
proveth  a 
bird  of  good 
omen,  and 
followeth  the 
ship  as  it  re- 
turned north- 
ward, 

through  fog 
and  floating 
ice. 

The  ancient 
Mariner 


From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus  !-  inhospitably  >  0 

Why  look'st  thou  so  ?" — With  my  cross-bow      killeth  the 


I  shot  the  ALBATROSS. 


pious  bird  of 
good  omen. 


PART  THE  SECOND. 

THE  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right : 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo ! 

\    And  I  had  done  an  hellish  thing, 

I  And  it  would  work  'em  woe : 

[   For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

1  That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

\  Ah  wretch !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

I  That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 


His  ship- 
mates cry  out 
against  the 
ancient 
Mariner,  for 
killing  the 
bird  of  gcod 
luck. 


4  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

But  when  the  Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

fog  cleared 


And  the  Al- 
batross be- 
gins to  bo 
avenged. 


ly  becalmed. 


Then  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 
That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 
'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 
That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free  : 

WTC  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  bo  ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  Wreath  nor  motion  ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water,  every  where, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink  ; 
Water,  water,  every  where, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 


The  very  deep  did  rot:  O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue  and  white. 


A  spirit  had    And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
followed          Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so : 
thTiuvisible    Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
inhabitants     From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
of  this  planet,"^ — 
neither  de- 
parted souls  nor  angels  ;  concerning  whom  the  learned  Jew,  Jose- 
phus,  and  the  Platonic  Constantinopolitan,  Michael  Psellus,  may  be 
consulted.     They  are  very  numerous  and  there  is  no  climate  or 
element  without  one  or  more. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
Wo  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah!  wella-day!  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


The  ship- 
mates, in 
their  sore 
distress, 
would  fain 
throw  the 
wholeguilton 
the  ancient 
Mariner:  in 
sign  whereof  they  hang  the  dead  sea-bird  round  his  neck. 


PART  THE  THIRD. 

THERE  passed  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 

Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 

A  weary  time !  a  weary  time ! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye, 

When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 

A  something  in  the  sky. 


7  At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist : 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared : 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

1   With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

1   We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ; 

I  Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood ! 

I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood, 
j  And  cried,  A  sail!  a  sail ! 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
Agape  they  heard  me  call : 
Gramercy !  they  for  joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

See !  see!  (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more! 
Hither  to  work  us  weal ; 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel ! 


The  ancient 
Mariner  be- 
holdeth  a 
sign  in  the 
element  afar 
off. 


At  its  nearer 
approach,  it 
seemeth  him 
to  be  a  ship; 
and  at  a  dear 
ransom  he 
freeth  his 
speech  from 
the  bonds  of 
thirst. 

A  flash  of 
joy.. 

And  horror 
follows.     For 
can  it  be  a 
ship  that 
comes  on- 
ward without 
wind  or  tide? 


6  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame. 
The  day  was  well  nigh  done ! 
'Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  Lroad  bright  Sun ; 
When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 

And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 
It  seemeth      (Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace !) 
skeleton  of°  a  As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered, 
fchip.  With  broad  and  burning  face. 

Alas !  (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  uears ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres ! 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  Sun 

Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ? 

And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew  T 

Is  lhat  a  DEATH  ?  and  are  there  two  ? 

Is  DEATH  that  woman's  mate  I 


Her  lips  were  red,  tier  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
board  the       The  Night-Mare  LIFE  ix-Di:ATH  was  she, 
skeieton-shipjwho  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

Like  vessel,    TQO  nake(i  hulk  alongside  came, 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice; 

DEATH,  and     "  The  game  is  done !     I've  won !   I've  won ! " 
LIFE-IN-          Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 
DEATH  have 

sK Sew,6 1  The  Sun's  rim  dips ;  the  stars  rush  out : 

and  ehe  (the!  I  At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ; 

latter)  win-    '  With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 

SSSent°          Off  sbot  tbe  sP°ctre-1)ark- 

Wo  listened  and  looked  sideways  up ! 
No  twilight  j  Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 
within  the     |  My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip ! 
courts    C  the  T,)e  gtars  wero  dim>  flnd  thjck  the  nigbt 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white; 
At  the  rising  From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 
of  the  Moon,  Till  ciomDe  above  the  eastern  bar 

The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star 

Within  the  nether  tip. 

One  after    j   One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon 
another.          Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 

1  Each  turned  his  <';«•«>  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
1\  And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

Tho  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, — 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe ! 
And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by, 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  CROSS-BOW! 


His  ship- 
mates drop 
down  dead; 


But  LIFE-IN- 
DEATH  begins 
her  work  on 
the  ancient 
Mariner. 


"  T  FI 


PART  THE   FOURTH. 


I  FEAR  thee,  ancient  Mariner! 
I  fear  thy  skinny  hand ! 
And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 
As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand.* 

"  I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 
And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown." — 
Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 
[  This  body  dropt  not  down. 

l|  Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 

I  Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea ! 

I  And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
1 1  My  soul  in  agony. 


,1 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  f eareth 
that  a  spirit  is 
talking  to 
him; 


But  the  an- 
cient Mariner 
assure th  him 
of  his  bodily 
life,  and  pro- 
ceedeth  to  re- 
late his  horri- 
ble penance. 


He  despiseth 
the  creatures 
of  the  calm. 


And  envieth 
that  they 
should  live, 
and  so  many 
lie  dead. 


Tho  many  men,  so  beautiful! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on  ;  and  so  did  I. 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  tttere  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  looked  to  Heaven,  and  tried  to  pray ; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet/ 

*  For  the  two  last  lines  of  this  stanza,  I  am  indebted  to  Mr. 
WORDSWORTH.  It  was  on  a  delightful  walk  from  Nether  Stowey  to 
Pulverton,  with  him  and  his  sister,  in  the  autumn  of  1797,  that  this 
Poem  was  planned,  and  in  part  composed. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


But  the  curse  The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
livethforhim  Nor  ^  nor  Tee^  fa&  they : 
the  dea5  men  The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  Hell 

A  spirit  from  011  high  ; 

But  oh!  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse. 


In  his  loneli- 
ness and  fix- 

yearneth  to-  The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
wards  the       ^nd  no  where  did  abide  : 


And  yet  I  could  not  die. 


Softly  she  was  going  up, 
the  stars  that  And  a  star  or  two  beside. 

yet  still'move  onward;  and  every  where  the  blue  sky,  belongs  to 
them  and  is  their  appointed  rest,  and  their  native  country  and  their 
own  Aatural  homes,  which  they  enter  unannounced  as  lords  ttttt 
are  certainly  expected  and  yet  there  is  a  silent  joy  at  their  arrival. 

Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 
Like  April  hoar-frost  spread  ; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
(   A  still  and  awful  red. 


I?y  the  light 
of  the  Moon 
he  beholdeth 
God's  crea- 
tures of  the 
great  calm. 


Their  beaut; 
and  their 
happiness.   , 

He  blesseth 
them  iu  his 
heart. 


The  spell  be 
gins  to  breal 


Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watched  the  water-snakes : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  tho  elfish  light 

Fell  offin  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coiled  and  swam  ;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

O  happy  living  things !  no  tonguo 

Their  beauty  might  declare : 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware : 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

The  self  same  moment  I  could  pray ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  aud  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


PART  THE  FIFTH. 


OH  SLEEP!  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  polo  to  pole ! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given  ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew  ; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained. 


My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
My  garments  all  were  dank  ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs  : 
I  Avasso  light— almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind: 
It  did  not  come  anear  ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life ! 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ! 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge  ; 
And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud; 
The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  Moon  was  at  its  side  : 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship, 
Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

A* 


By  prrace  of 
the  Holy 
Mother,  the 
ancient  Mar- 
iner is  re- 
freshed with 
rain. 


He  hearcth 
sounds,    and 
seeth  strange 
sights  and 
commotions 
in  the  sky 
and  tho 
element. 


The  bodies 
of  the  ship's 
crew  are  in- 
spired, and 
the  ship 
moves  on  ; 


10  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose, 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes  ; 
[  It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
I  To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on  ; 
Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew  ; 
The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 
Where  they  were  wont  to  do  : 
They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools  — 
I  We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

'The  body  of  my  brother's  son, 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee  : 
The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope, 
But  he  said  nought  to  me. 

But  not  by      "I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner  !" 

the  souls  of  Bo  calm>  thou  Wedding-Guest  ! 

by  demons    'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 

of  earth  or     Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 


hut  ba  tr°°P  °f  8Pirits  ble8t  : 

blessed  troop 

of  angelic       For  when  it  dawned  —  they  dropped  their  arms, 

spirits,  sent    ^nd  clustered  round  the  mast  ; 

invocatTonof  Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths, 

the  guardian  And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

saint. 

Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun  ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 
I  heard  the  sky-lark  sing  ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoniug  ! 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  Heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


11 


Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went" the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
The  spirit  slid:  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean: 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir, 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion; 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound: 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned. 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discerned 
Two  VOICES  in  the  air. 

"  Is  it  he  ?"  quoth  one,  "  Is  this  the  man  f 
By  him  who  died  on  cross, 
With  his  cruel  bow  lie  laid  full  low, 
The  harmless  Albatross. 

"The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  laud  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow." 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew : 

Quoth  he,  "The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do. 


The  lonesome 
spirit  from 
the  south- 
pole  carries 
on  the  ship  as 
far  as  the 
Line,  in  obe- 
dience to  the 
angelic  troop, 
but  still  re- 
quireth  ven- 
geance. 


The  Polar 
Spirit's  fellow 
daemons,  the 
invisible  in- 
habitants of 
the  element, 
take  part  in 
his  wrong; 
and  two  of 
them  relate, 
one  to  the 
other,  that 
penance  long 
and  heavy  for 
the  ancient 
Mariner  hath 
been  accord- 
ed to  the  Po- 
lar Spirit, 
who  return- 
eth  south- 
ward. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


PART  THE  SIXTH. 

FIRST    VOICE. 

BUT  tell  me,  tell  me !  speak  again, 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast? 
What  is  the  OCEAN  doing  ? 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  oCEAN'hath  no  blast; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go ; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see!  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him. 


FIRST    VOICE. 

The  Mariner   But  why  drives  oil  that  ship  so  fast, 

hath  been        Without  or  wave  or  wind? 

cast  into  a 

trance;  for 

the  angelic  SECOND  VOICE. 

power  caus- 

eth  the  vessel  The  air  is  cut  away  before, 

And  closes  from 


than  human 
life  could  en- 
dure. 


The  super- 
natural mo- 
tion is  retard 
ed:  theMari 
ner  awakes, 
and  his  pen- 
ance begins 
anew. 


Fly.  brother,  fly!  more  high,  more  high, 
Ol.  we  8hall  bo  belated  : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go. 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated. 

I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather  : 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  Moon  was  high; 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter  : 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 


The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they 
Had  never  passed  away  : 
I  <-ould  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER.  13 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt  :  once  more  The  curse  is 

I  viewed  the  ocean  green, 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen  — 

Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  turned  round  walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head  ; 

llecause  he  knows,  a  frightful  fiend 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made  : 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring  — 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  ifc  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 
Yet  she  sailed  softly  too  : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze  — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

Oh!  dream  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed  And  the  an- 

Tbe  light-house  top  I  see  ? 

Is  this  the  hill?  is  this  the  kirk? 

Is  this  mine  own  countree  ?  try. 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour-bar 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray  — 
O  let  me  be  awake,  my  God  ! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbour-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock  : 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  sileutness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 

Till  rising  from  the  same,  The  angelic 


Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 

In  crimson  colours  came.  bodies, 


14  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

And  appear        A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
fSrmseof  °WU      Those  crimson  shadows  were : 
light.  I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 

Oh,  Christ !  what  saw  I  there ! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man, 
•  On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-hand,  each  waved  his  hand  ; 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight! 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light : 

I  This  seraph-hand,  each  waved  his  hand, 
I  No  voice  did  they  impart — 

No  voice ;  but  oh!  the  silence  sank 
I  Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars 
I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer  ; 
My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat. appear*. 

The  Pi  lot,  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast; 
Dear  Lord  in  Heaven !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice  : 
1  It  is  the  Hermit  good ! 
He  singe th  loud  hi.s  godly  hymns 
That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 
He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 
The  Albatross's  blood. 


PART  THE  SEVENTH. 
\ 

™  TlIIS  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 

>od-      Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears ! 
1  le  loves  to  talk  with  mariueres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon  and  eve — 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump  ; 
It  is  tbe  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER.  15 

Tho  skiif  boat  neared  :  I  heard  them  talk, 
"  Why  this  is  strange,  I  trow ! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now  ?" 

"  Strange,  by  my  faith  !"  the  Hermit  said—         tlS^*"5  with 
"  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer !  wonder. 

The  planks  looked  warped !  and  see  those  sails, 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere  ! 
I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 
Unless  perchance  it  were 

Brown  skeletons,  of  leaves  that  lag 

My  forest-brook  along ;  ~. 

When  the  iny-tod  is  heavy  with  snow,  / 

And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 

That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young." 

"  Dear  Lord !  ifc  hath  a  fiendish  look — 
(The  Pilot  made  reply) 
I  am  a-feared  " — "  Push  on,  push  on !" 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on,  The  ship  sud- 

Still  louder  and  more  dread  :  denly  sinketh 

It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay ; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

Stunned  by  that  loud  aud  dreadful  sound,          The  ancient 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote,  JJj™ er  is 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned      Riot's  boat. 

My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 

The  boat  spun  round  and  round ;  /  f 

And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 

Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips— the  Pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 
The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars  :  the  Pilot's  boy, 
Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 


16 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 
His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 
"  Ha  !  ha!"  quoth  he,  "  full  plain  I  see, 
\JThe  Devil  knows  how  to  row." 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 

I  stood  on  the  linn  land  ! 

The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  hoat, 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 


The  ancient 
Mariner 
earnestly 
entreateth 
the  Hermit 
to  shrieve 
him;  and  the 
penance  of 
life  falls  on 
him. 


"  O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man!'1 
The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow. 
"  Say  quick,"  quoth  he,  "  I  bid  thee  say— 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?" 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 

With  a  woeful  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale ; 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 


And  ever  and  c,npA 
anon      thro'-  b 
out  his  future 
life  an  agony 
constraineth 
him  to  trave 
from  land  t<X 
land. 


then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns ; 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 


I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land  ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  mo : 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door ! 
The  wedding-guests  aro  there  : 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are  : 
And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell. 
Which  biddeth  mo  to  prayer. 

O  Wedding-Guest !  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea : 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company! — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While^each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay ! 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


17 


i 


Farewell,  farewell !  but  this  I  tell 
To  tbee,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

Ho  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us 
He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone  :  and  now* the  Wedding-Guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn  : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man, 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


And  to  teach, 
by  his  own 
example, 
love  and 
reverence  to 
all  things 
that  God 
made  and 
loveth. 


CHRISTABEL. 


PREFACE.* 

The  first  part  of  the  following  poem  was  written  in  the  year  one 
thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety-seven,  at  Stowey  in  the  county 
of  Somerset.  The  second  part,  after  my  return  from  Germany,  in 
the  year  one  thousand  eight  hundred,  at  Keswick,  Cumberland. 
Since  the  latter  date,  my  poetic  po wers  have  been,  till  very  lately,  in 
a  state  of  suspended  animation.  But  as,  in  my  very  first  concep- 
tion of  the  tale,  I  had  the  whole  present  to  my  mind,  with  the 
wholeness,  no  less  than  with  the  loveliness  of  a  vision;  I  trust  that 
I  t-hall  yet  be  able  to  embody  in  verse  the  three  parts  yet  to  come. 
It  is  probable,  that  if  the  poem  had  been  finished  at  either  of  the 
former  periods,  or  if  even  the  first  and  second  part  had  been  pub- 
lished in  the  year  1800,  the  impression  of  its  originality  would  have 
been  much  greater  than  I  dare  at  present  expect.  But  for  this,  I 
have  only  my  own  indolence  to  blame.  The  dates  are  mentioned 
for  the  exclusive  purpose  of  precluding  charges  of  plagiarism  or 
servile  imitation  from  myself.  For  there  is  among  us  a  set  of 
critics,  who  seem  to  hold,  that  every  possible  thought  and  image  is 
traditional  ;  who  have  no  notion 'that  there  are  such  things  as 
fountains  in  the  world,  small  as  well  ••  s  great  ;  and  who  would 
therefore  charitably  derive  every  rill  they  behold  flowing,  from  a 
perforation  made  in  some  other  man's  tank..  I  am  confident,  how- 
ever, that  as  far  as  the  present  jxn-m  is  concerned,  the  celebrated 
poets  whose  writings  I  might  be  suspected  of  having  imitated, 
either  in  particular  passages,  or  in  the  tone  and  the  spirit  of  the 
whole,  would  be  among  the  first  to  vindicate  me  from  the  charge, 
and  who,  on  any  striking  coincidence,  would  permit  me  to  address 
them  in  this  doggrel  version  of  two  monkish  Latin  hexameters  : 

Tis  mine  and  it  is  likewise  your's, 

But  an  if  this  will  not  do; 

Let  it  be  mine,  good  friend!  for  I 

Am  the  poorer  of  the  two. 

I  have  only  to  add,  that  the  metre  of  the  Christabel  is  not,  prop- 
erly speaking,  irregular,  though  it  may  seem  so  from  its  being 
founded  on  a  new  principle  :  namely,  that  of  counti  g  in  each  line 
the  accents,  not  the  syllables.  Though  the  latter  may  vary  from 
seven  to  twelve,  yet  in  each  line  the  accents  will  be  found  to  be  only 
four.  Nevertheless  this  occasional  variat  ion  in  number  of  syllable's 
is  not  introduced  wantonl^.  or  for  the  mere  ends  of  convenience, 
but  in  correspondence  with  some  transition  in  the  nature  of  the 
imagery  or  passion. 


PART  THE  FIRST. 

'Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  caslle,  clock, 
And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crowing  cock ; 

Tu— whit ! Tu — whoo  ! 

And  hark,  again!  flit1  crowing  cock, 
How  drowsily  it  crew. 

*  To  the  edition  of  181G. 


CHRISTABEL.  19 

Sir  Leolinc,  the  Baron  rich, 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff,  which 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 

Maketh  answer  to  the  clock, 

Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the  hour; 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower, 

Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud  ; 

Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ? 
The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 
The  thin  grey  cloud  is  spread  ou  high, 
It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 
The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full ; 
And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chill,  the  cloutl  is  grey  : 
'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  Spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 

Whom  her  father  loves  so  well, 

What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late, 

A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate  f 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of  her  own  betrothed  knight; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  tbe  weal  of  her  lover  that's  far  away. 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 
The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and- low, 
And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak, 
But  moss  arid  rarest  mistletoe  : 
She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree, 
And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel ! 

It  moaned  as  near,  as  near  can  be, 

But  what  it  is,  she  cannot  tell. — 

On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be, 

Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak  tree. 

The  night  is  chill ;  the  forest  bare  ; 

Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak  ? 

There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 

To  move  away  tbe  ringlet  curl 

From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek — 

There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 

The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high, 

On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky. 


20  CHRISTABEL. 

Hush  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 
Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there  ? 


There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 

Dre^st  iu  a  silken  robe  of  white, 

That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone  : 

The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan, 

Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  were  bare  ; 

Her  blue- veined  feet  unsandl'd  were 

And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 

The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 

I  guess,  'twas  frightful  there  to  see 

A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 

Beautiful  exceedingly ! 

Mary  mother,  save  me  now  ! 

(Said  Christabel,)  And  who  art  thou  ? 

The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet, 

And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet : — 

Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 

I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness. 

Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no  fear, 

Said  Christabel,  How  earnest  thou  here  ? 

And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  faint  and  sweet, 

Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet : — 

My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line, 

And  my  name  is  Geraldino: 

Five-  warriors  seized  me  yestermorn, 

Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn : 

They  choked  my  cries  with  force  and  fright, 

And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 

The  palfrey  was  as  ileet  as  wind, 

And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 

They  s^.red  amain,  their  steeds  were  white  ; 

And  once  we  crossed  the  shade  of  night. 

As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 

I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be  ; 

Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 

(For  I  have  lain  entranced  1  wis) 

Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  live, 

Took  me  from  the  palfrey's  back, 

A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 

Some  muttered  words  his  comrades  spoke. 

He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak, 

He  swore  they  would  return  with  haste  ; 

Whither  they  went  I  cannot  tell — 


CHRISTABEL.  f  21 

I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  past, 
Sounds  as  of  a  castle  bell. 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand  (thus  ended  she,) 
And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  flee. 

Then  Christabel  stretched  forth  her  hand 
And  comforted  fair  Geraldiue  : 

0  well  bright  dame  may  you  command 
The  service  of  Sir  Leoline  ; 

And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 

Will  he  send  forth  and  friends  withall 

To  guide  and  guard  you  safe  and  free 

Home  to  your  noble  father's  hall.  ( 

She  rose  :  and  forth  with  steps  they  passed 

That  strovad  to  be,  and  were  not,  fast. 

Her  gracious  STARS  the  lady  blest, 

And  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christabel ; 

All  our  household  are  at  rest, 

The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell, 

Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health 

And  may  not  well  awakened  be, 

But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth 

And  I  beseech  your  courtesy 

This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me. 

They  crossed  the  moat,  and  Christabel 

Took  the  key  that  fitted  well ; 

A  little  door  she  opened  straight, 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate ; 

The  gate  that  was  ironed  within  and  without, 

Where  an  army  in  battle  array  had  marched  out. 

The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain. 

And  Christabel  with  might  and  main 

Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight, 

Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate  : 

Then  the  lady  rose  again, 

And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  crossed  the  court :  right  glad  they  were. 

And  Christabel  devoutly  cried, 

To  the  lady  by  her  side, 

Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 

Who  hath  rescued  thee  from  thy  distress ! 

Alas,  alas !  said  Geraldine, 

1  cannot  speak  for  weariness. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  crossed  the  court:  right  glad  they  were. 

Outside  her  kennel,  the  mastiff  old 
Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 


22  CHRIST  ABEL. 

The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake, 
Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make ! 
And  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch  ? 
Never  till  now  she  uttered  yell 
Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  owlet's  scritch  : 
For  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch  ? 

They  passed  the  hall,  that  echoes  still, 

Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will ! 

The  brands  were  flat,  the  brands  were  dying, 

Amid  their  own  white  ashes  lying ; 

But  when  the  lady  passed,  there  came 

A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  name ; 

And  Christabel  saw  the  lady's  eye, 

And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby, 

Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  Leoline  tall, 

Which  hang  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the  wall. 

O  softly  tread,  .said  Christabel, 

My  father  seldom  sleepeth  well. 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare 
And  jealous  of  the  listening  air 
They  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair 
Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom, 
And  now  they  pass  the  Baron's  room, 
As  still  as  death  with  stifled  breath! 
And  now  have  reached  her  chamber  door  ; 
And  now  doth  Geraldine  press  down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  iloor. 

^  The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air, 
And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 
But  they  without  its  light  can  see 
The  chamber  carved  so  curiously, 
Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet, 
All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain, 
For  a  lady's  chamber  meet : 
The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 
Is  fastened  to  an  angel's  feet. 
The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim; 
But  Christabel  the  lamp  will  trim. 
She  trimmed  the  lamp,  and  made  it  bright, 
And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro, 
While  Geraldine,  in  wretched  plight, 
Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below. 

0  weary  lady,  Geraldinc, 

1  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial  wine! 
It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  powers; 
My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flowers. 


CIIRISTAI3EL.  23 

And  will  your  mother  pity  me, 
Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn  ? 
Christabel  answered — Woe  is  me ! 
She  died  the  hour  that  I  was  born. 
1  have  heard  the  grey-haired  friar  tell, 
How  on  her  death-bed  she  did  say, 
That  she  should  hear  the  castle  bell 
Strike  twelve  upon  my  wedding  day. 

0  mother  dear !  that  thou  wert  here ! 

1  would,  said  Geraidine,  she  were ! 

But  soon  with  altered  voice,  said  she — 
"  Off,  wandering  mother!     Peak  and  pine  ! 
"  I  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee." 
Alas !  what  ails  poor  Geraidine  ? 
Why  stares  she  with  unsettled  eye? 
Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy  ? 
And  why  with  hollow  voice  cries  she, 
'•  Off,  woman,  off!  this  hour  is  mine — 
"  Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit  be, 
"  Off,  woman,  off!  'tis  given  to  me." 

Then  Christabel  knelt  by  the  lady's  side, 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue — 
Alas !  said  she,  this  ghastly  ride — 
Dear  lady  !  it  hath  wildered  you ! 
The  lady  wiped  her  moist  cold  brow, 
And  faintly  said,  "  'tis  over  now ! " 

Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she  drank : 
Her  fair  large  eyes  'gan  glitter  blight, 
And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank, 
The  lofty  lady  stood  upright ; 
She  was  most  beautiful  to  see, 
Like  a  lady  of  a  far  countree. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake — 
All  they,  who  live  in  the  upper  sky, 
Do  love  you,  holy  Christabel! 
And  you  \o\  o  them,  and  for  their  sake 
And  for  the  good  which  me  befel, 
Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try, 
Fair  maiden,  to  requite  you  well. 
But  now  unrobe  yourself;  for  I 
Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie. 

Quoth  Christabel,  so  let  it  be ! 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 


24  CHRISTABEL. 

But  through  her  bram  of  weal  and  woe 
So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  fro, 
That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close ; 
So  half-way  from  the  bed  she  rose, 
And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 
To  look  at  the  lady  Geraldine. 

Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady  bowed, 
And  slowly  rolled  her  eyes  around  ; 
Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud, 
Like  one  that  shuddered,  she  unbound 
The  cincture  from  beneath  her  breast: 
•  Her  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest, 
Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view, 

Behold !  her  bosom  and  half  her  side 

A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell ! 

O  shield  her!  shield  sweet  Christabel ! 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs : 
Ah !  what  a  stricken  look  was  hers ! 
Deep  from  within  she  seems  half-way 
To  lift  some  weight  with  sick  assay, 
And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay ; 
Then  suddenly  as  one  defied 
Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  pride, 
And  lay  down  by  the  Maiden's  side ! — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took, 

Ah  wel-a-day ! 

And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look 
These  words  did  say : 

In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  there  worketh  a  spell, 
Which  is  lord  of  thy  utterance,  Christabel! 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know  to-morrow 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my  sorrow  ; 

But  vainly  thou  warrest, 
For  this  is  alone  in 

Thy  power  to  declare, 
That  in  the  dim  forest 

Thou  heardest  a  low  moaning, 
And  foundest  a  bright  lady,  surpassingly  fair  : 
And  didst  bring  her  home  with  thec  in  love  and  iu 

charity, 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the  damp  air. 


THE  CONCLUSION  TO  PART  THE  FIRST. 

IT  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree. 
Amid  the  jagged  shadows 
Of  mossy  leafless  boughs 


CIIRISTABEL.  25 

Kneeling  in  the  moonlight, 

To  make  her  gentle  vows; 
Her  slender  palms  together  prest, 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast; 
Her  face  resigned  to  bliss  or  bale — 
Her  face,  oh  call  it  fair  not  pale, 
And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright  than  clear, 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 

With  open  eyes  (ah  woe  is  me!) 
Asleep,  and  dreaming  fearfully, 
Fearfully  dreaming,  yet  I  wis, 
Dreaming  that  alone,  which  is — 
O  sorrow  and  shame!    Can  this  be  she, 
The  lady,  who  knelt  at  the  old  oak  tree? 
And  lo!  the  worker  of  these  harms, 
That  holds  the  maiden  in  her  arms, 
Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild, 
As  a  mother  with  her  child. 

A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 

O  Geraldine!  since  arms  of  thine 

Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 

O  Geraldine !   one  hour  was  thiue — 

Thou'st  had  thy  will!  By  tairn  and  rill, 

The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still. 

But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 

From  cliff  and  tower,  tu — whoo !  tu — whoo ' 

Tu — whoo !  tu — whoo !  from  wood  and  fell ! 

And  see !  the  lady  Christabel 
Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance  ; 
Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft ;  the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes ;  and  tears  she  sheds — 
Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright ! 
Ami  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light ! 
Yea,  she  doth  smile,  aud  she  doth  weep, 
Like  a  youthful  hermitess, 
Beauteous  in  a  wilderness, 
Who,  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep. 
And,  if  she  move  uuquietly, 
Perchance,  'tis  but  the  blood  so  free, 
Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 
No  doubu,  she  hath  a  vision  sweet. 
What  it  her  guardian  spirit  'twere, 
What  if  she  knew  her  mother  near  ? 
But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes, 
That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  call: 
For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all ! 


f 


CHKISTABEL. 


PART  THE  SECOND. 

EACH  matin  bell,  the  Baron  saith, 
Knells  us  back  to  a  world  of  death. 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  first  said, 
When  lie  roso  and  found  his  lady  dead : 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  will  say, 
Many  a  morn  to  his  dying  day, 
And  hence  the  custom  aud  law  began, 
That  still  at  dawn  the  sacristan, 
Who  duly  pulls  the  heavy  bell, 
Five  and  forty  beads  must  tell 
Between  each  stroke — a  warning  knell 
Which  not  a  soul  can  choose  but  hear 
From  Bratha  Head  to  Wynderinere. 

Saith  Bracy  the  bard,  So  let  it  knell ! 
And  let  the  drowsy  sacristan 
Still  count  as  slowly  as  he  can! 
There  is  no  lack  of  such,  I  ween 
As  well  fill  up  the  space  between. 
In  Langdale  Pike  and  Witch's  Lair, 
And  Dungeon-ghyll  so  foully  rent, 
With  ropes  of  rock  and  bells  of  air 
Three  sinful  sextons'  ghosts  are  pent, 
Who  all  give  back,  ono  after  t'other, 
The  deatb-note  to  their  living  brother; 
And  oft  too,  by  the  knell  offended, 
Just  as  their  one!  two!  three!  is  ended, 
The  devil  mocks  the  doleful  tale 
With  a  merry  peal  from  Borrowdale. 

The  air  is  still!  through  mist,  and  cloud 
That  merry  peal  comes  ringing  loud; 
And  GeraMine  shakes  oil'  her  dread, 
And  rises  lightly  from  the  bed ; 
Puts  on  her  silken  vestments  white, 
And  tricks  her  hair  it)  lovely  plight, 
And  nothing  doubting  of  her  spell 
Awakens  the  lady  ChriatabeL 
"  Sleep  you,  sweet  lady  Christabel  ? 
"  I  trust  that  you  have  rested  well.'' 

And  Christabel  awoke  and  spied 
The  same  who  lay  down  by  her  side — 
O  rather  say,  the  same  whom  she 
Raised  up  beneath  the  old  oak  tree! 
Nay,  fairer  yet !  and  yet  more  fair! 
For  she  belike  hath  drunken  deep 
Of  all  the  blessedness  of  sleep  ! 


CHRISTABEL.  27 

And  while  she  spake,  her  looks,  her  air 
Such  gentle  thankfulness  declare, 
That  (so  it  seemed)  her  girded  vests 
Grew  tight  beneath  her  heaving  breasts. 
"Sure  I  have  sinned  I"  said  Christabel, 
".Now  heaven  be  praised  if  all  be  well  !" 
And  in  low  faltering  tones,  yet  sweet, 
Did  she  the  lofty  lady  greet 
With  such  perplexity  of  mind 
As  dreams  too  lively  leave  behind. 

So  quickly  she  rose,  and  quickly  arrayed 
Her  maiden  limbs,  and  having  prayed 
That  He,  who  on  the  cross  did  groan, 
Might  wash  away  her  sins  unknown, 
She  forthwith  led  fair  Geraldine 
To  meet  her  sire,  Sir  Leoline. 


tall 


The  lovely  maid  and  the  lady 

Are  pacing  both  into  the  hall, 

And  pacing  on  through  page  and  groom 

Enter  the  Baron's  presence  room. 

The  Baron  rose,  and  while  he  prest 
His  gentle  daughter  to  his  breast, 
With  cheerful  wonder  in  his  eyes 
The  lady  Geraldine  espies, 
And  gave  such  welcome  to  the  same, 
As  might  beseem  so  bright  a  dame  ! 

But  when  he  heard  the  lady's  tale, 
And  when  she  told  her  father's  name, 
Why  waxed  Sir  Leoline  so  pale, 
Murmuring  o'er  the  name  again, 
Lord  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine  ? 

Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth  ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 
And  life  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain  ; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love, 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 
With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 
Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother  : 

They  parted—  ne'er  to  meet  again  ! 
But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining  — 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining, 
Like  cliffs  which  have  been  rent  asunder  ; 


28  CHRISTABEL. 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between, 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween, 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been 

Sir  LeoUne,  a  moment's  space, 
Stood  gazing  on  the  damsel's  face  ; 
And  the  youthful  Lord  of  Tryermaine 
Came  back  upon  his  heart  again. 

O  then  the  Baron  forgot  his  age, 

His  ooble  heart  swelled  high  with  rage; 

He  swore  by  the  wounds  in  Jesu's  side, 

He  would  proclaim  it  far  and  wide 

With  trump  and  solemn  heraldry, 

That  they,  who  thus  had  wronged  the  dame, 

Were  base  as  spotted  infamy  1 

'  And  if  they  dare  deny  the  same, 

'  My  herald  shall  appoint  a  week, 

*  And  let  the  recreant  traitors  seek 

'My  tournay — that  there  and  then 

'  I  may  dislodge  their  reptile  souls 
"  From  the  bodies  and  forms  of  men  !'' 
He  spake :  his  eye  in  lightning  rolls  ! 
For  the  lady  was  ruthlessly  seized  ;  and  he  kenned 
In  the  beautiful  lady  the  child  of  his  friend ! 

And  now  the  tears  were  on  his  face, 

And  fondly  in  his  arms  he  took 

Fair  Geraldine,  who  met  the  embrace, 

Prolonging  it  with  joyous  look. 

Which  when  she  viewed,  a  vision  fell 

Upon  the  soul  of  Chris tabeL 

The  vision  of  fear,  the  touch  and  pain  ! 

She  shrunk  and  shuddered,  and  saw  again 

(Ah,  woo  is  me !    Was  it  for  thee, 

Thou  gentle  maid  !  such  sights  to  see  ?) 

Again  she  saw  that  bosom  old. 

Again  she  felt  that  bosom  cold, 

And  drew  iu  her  breath  with  a  hissing  sound  : 

Whereat  the  Knight  turned  wildly  round, 

And  nothing  saw,  but  his  own  sweet  maid 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  that  prayed. 

The  touch,  the  sight,  had  passed  away, 
And  in  its  stead  that  vision  blest, 
Which  comforted  her  after-rest, 
While  in  the  lady's  arms  she  lay, 
Had  put  a  rapture  in  her  breast, 
And  on  her  lips  and  o'er  her  eyes 
Spread  smiles  like  light ! 


CHRISTABEL.  29 

With  new  surprise, 
"  What  ails  then  my  beloved  child  f ' 
The  Baron  said — His  daughter  mild 
Made  answer,  "  All  will  yet  be  well !" 
I  ween,  she  had  no  power  to  tell 
Aught  else  :  so  mighty  was  the  spell. 
Yet  he,  who  saw  this  Geraldine, 
Had  deemed  her  sure  a  thing  divine, 
Such  sorrow  with  such  grace  she  blended, 
As  if  she  feared,  she  had  offended 
Sweet  Christabel,  that  gentle  maid ! 
And  with  such  lowly  tones  she  prayed, 
She  might  be  sent  without  delay 
Home  to  her  father's  mansion. 

"Nay! 

"Nay,  by  my  soul !"  said  Leoline. 
"  Ho !  Bracy  the  bard,  the  charge  be  thine! 
"  Go  thou,  with  music  sweet  and  loud, 
"  And  take  two  steeds  with  trappings  proud, 
"  And  take  the  youth  whom  thou  lov'st  best 
"  To  bear  thy  harp,  and  learn  thy  song, 
"  And  clothe  you  both  in  solemn  vest, 
"  And  over  the  mountains  haste  along, 
"  Lest  wandering  folk,  that  are  abroad 
"  Detain  you  on  the  valley  road. 
"  And  when  he  has  crossed  the  Irthing  flood, 
"  My  merry  bard !  he  hastes,  he  hastes 
lt  Up  Knorren  Moor,  through  Halegarth  Wood, 
"  And  reaches  soon  that  castle  good, 
"  Which  stands  and  threatens  Scotland's  wastes. 

"Bard  Bracy !   bard  Bracy !  your  horses  are  fleet, 
"  Ye  must  ride  np  the  hall,  your  music  so  sweet, 
"  More  loud  than  your  horses'  echoing  feet ! 
"  And  loud  and  loud  to  Lord  Roland  call, 
"  Thy  daughter  is  safe  in  Langdale  hall ! 
"  Thy  beautiful  daughter  is  safe  and  free — 
"  Sir  Leoline  greets  thee  thus  through  me. 
"  He  bids  thee  come  without  delay 
"  With  all  thy  numerous  array  ; 
"  And  take  thy  lovely  daughter  home, 
"  And  he  will  meet  thee  on  the  way 
"  With  all  his  numerous  array-, 
tl  White  with  their  panting  palfreys'  foam, 
"And,  by  mine  honour  !  I  will  say, 
"That  I  repent  me  of  the  day 
"  When  I  spake  words  of  fierce  disdain 
"  To  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryerrnaine ! — 
• "  — For  since  that  evil  hour  hath  flown, 
"  Many  a  summer's  sun  hath  shown ; 
"  Yet  ne'er  found  I  a  friend  again 
"Like  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine." 


30  CHRISTABEL. 

The  lady  fell,  and  clasped  his  knees, 

Her  face  upraised,  her  eyes  o'erttowing ; 

And  Bracy  replied,  with  faultering  voice, 

His  gracious  hail  on  allhestowing  :— 

Thy  words,  thou  sire  of  Christahel, 

Are  sweeter  than  my  harp  can  tell ; 

Yet  might  I  gain  a  boon  of  thee, 

This  day  my  journey  should  not  be, 

So  strange  a  dream  hath  come  to  me  : 

That  I  had  vowed  with  music  loud 

To  clear  yon  wood  from  thing  uublest, 

Warned  by  a  vision  in  my  rest ! 

For  in  my  sleep  I  saw  that  dove, 

That  gentle  bird,  whom  thou  dost  love, 

And  calPst  by  thy  own  daughter's  name — 

Sir  Leoline !  I  saw  the  same, 

Fluttering,  and  uttering  fearful  moan, 

Among  the  green  herbs  in  the  forest  alone. 

Which  when  I  saw  and  when  I  heard, 

I  wonder'd  what  might  ail  the  bird : 

For  nothing  near  it  could  I  Bee, 

Save  the  grass  and  green  herbs  underneath  the  old  tree. 

And  in  my  dream,  methought,  I  went 
To  search  out  what  might  there  be  found ; 
And  what  the  sweet  bird's  trouble  meant, 
That  thus  lay  fluttering  on  the  ground. 
I  went  and  peered,  and  could  descry 
No  cause  for  her  distressful  cry ; 
But  yet  for  her  dear  lady's  sake 
[  stooped,  methought  the  dove  to  take, 
When  lo !  I  saw  a  bright  green  snake 
Coiled  around  its  wings  and  neck. 
Green  as  the  herbs  on  which  it  couched, 
Close  by  the  dove's  its  head  it  crouched ; 
And  with  the  dove  it  heaves  and  stirs. 
Swelling  its  neck  aa  she  swelled  hers ! 
I  woke  ;  it  was  the  midnight  hour, 
The  clock  was  echoing  in  the  tower; 
But  though  my  slumber  was  gone  by, 
This  dream  it  would  not  pass  away — 
It  seems  to  live  upon  my  eye ! 
And  thence  I  vowed  this  self-same  day 
With  music  strong*and  saintly  song 
To  wander  through  the  forest  bare, 
Lest  aught  uuholy  loiter  there. 

Thus  Bracy  said:  the  Baron,  the  while, 
Half-listening  heard  him  with  a  smile ; 
Then  turned  to  Lady  Geraldine, 
His  eyes  made  up  of  wonder  and  love ; 
And  said  in  courtly  accents  fine, 


CUEIST  ABEL.  31 

Sweet  maid,  Lord  Roland's  beauteous  dove, 
With  arms  more  strong  than  harp  or  song, 
Thy  sire  and  I  will  crush  the  snake! 
He  kissed  her  forehead  as  he  spake 
And  Geraldine  in  maiden  wise, 
Casting  clown  her  large  bright  eyes, 
With  blushing  cheek  and  courtesy  fine 
She  turned  her  from  Sir  Leoline  ; 
Softly  gathered  up  her  train, 
That  o'er  her  right  arm  fell  again  ; 
And  folded  her  arms  across  her  chest, 
And  couched  her -head  upon  her  breast, 

And  looked  askance  at  Christabel 

50*-  Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 

A  snake's  small  eye  blinks  dull  and  shy, 

And  the  lady's  eyes  they  shrunk  in  her  head, 

Each  shrunk  up  to  a  serpent's  eye, 

And  with  some  what  of  malice,  and  more  of  dread 

At  Christabel  she  looked  askance ! — 

One  moment  —and  the  sight  was  fled ! 

But  Christabel  in  dizzy  trance, 

Stumbling  on  the  unsteady  ground — 

Shuddered  aloud  with  a  hissing  sound  j 

And  Geraldiue  again  turned  round, 

And  like  a  thing,  that  sought  relief, 

Full  of  wonder  and  full  of  grief, 

She  rolled  her  large  bright  eyes  divine 

Wildly  on  Sir  Leoline. 

The  maid,  alas !  her  thoughts  are  gone, 
She  nothing  seas — no  sight  but  one!  But 
The  maid,  devoid  of  guile  and  sin, 

I  know  not  how,  in  fearful  wise 
So  deeply  Lad  she  drunken  in 

That  look,  those  shrunken  serpent  eyes, 
That  all  her  features  were  resigned 
To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind : 
And  passively  did  imitate 
That  look  of  dull  and  treacherous  hato, 
And  thus  sho  stood,  in  dizzy  trance, 
Still  picturing  tliat  look  askance, 
With  forced  unconscious  sympathy 

Full  before  her  father's  view 

As  far  as  such  a  look  could  be, 

In  eyes  so  innocent  and  blue ! 

And  when  the  trance  was  o'er,  the  maid 

Paused  awhile,  and  inly  prayed, 

Then  falling  at  her  father's  feet, 

II  By  my  mother's  soul  do  I  entreat 

"  That  thou  this  woman  send  away  !" 
She  said  ;  and  more  she  could  not  say, 


32  CHRISTABEL. 

For  what  she  knew  sho  conld  not  tell, 
e'er-mastered  by  the  mighty  spell. 

Why  is  thy  cheek  so  wan  and  wild, 

Sir  Leoline  ?  Thy  only  child 

Lies  at  thy  feet,  thy  joy,  thy  pride, 

So  fair,  so  innocent,  so  mild  ; 

The  same,  for  whom  thy  lady  died  ! 

0  by  the  pangs  of  her  dear  mother 
Think  thou  no  evil  of  thy  child  ! 
For  her,  and  thee,  and  for  no  other, 
She  prayed  the  moment  ere  she  died : 
Prayed  that  the  babe  for  whom  she  diedr 
Might  prove  her  dear  lord's  joy  and  pride ! 

That  prayer  her  deadly  pangs  beguiled, 

Sir  Leoline  ! 
And  wonld'st  thou  wrong  thy  only  child, 

Her  child  and  thine  ? 
Within  the  Baron's  heart  and  brain 
If  thoughts,  like  these,  had  any  sharp, 
They  only  swelled  his  rage  and  pain, 
And  did  but  work  confusion  there. 
His  heart  was  cleft  with  pain  and  rage, 
His  cheeks  they  quivered,  his  eyes  were  wild, 
Dishonoured  thus  in  his  old  age ; 
Dishonoured  by  his  only  child, 
And  all  his  hospitality 
To  the  insulted  daughter  of  his  friend 
By  more  than  woman's  jealousy, 
Brought  thus  to  a  disgraceful  end — 
He  rolled  his  eye  with  stern  regard 
Upon  the  gentle  minstrel  bard, 
And  said  in  tones  abrupt,  austere — 
Why,  Bracy  !  dost  thou  loiter  here  f 

1  bade  thee  hence !  The  bard  obeyed  ; 
And  turning  from  his  own  sweet  maid, 
The  aged  knight,  Sir  I.eolinc-, 

Led  forth  the  lady  Geraldine ! 


THE  CONCLUSION  TO  PART  THK  KECONI>. 

A  LITTLE  child,  a  limber  elf, 
Singing,  dancing  to  itself, 
A  fairy  thing  with  red  round  cheeks 
That  always  liuds,  and  never  seeks, 
Makes  such  a  vision  to  the  sight 
As  fills  a  father's  eyes  with  light ; 
And  pleasures  How  in  so  thick  and  fast 
Upon  his  heart,  that  he  at  last 
Must  needs  express  his  love's  excess 
With  words  of  unmeant  bitterness. 


KUBLA  KHAN.  33 

Perhaps  'tis  pretty  to  force  together 

Thoughts  so  unlike  each  other; 

To  mutter  and  mock  a  broken  charm, 

To  dally  with  wrong  that  does  no  harm. 

Perhaps  'tis  tender  too  and  pretty 

At  each  wild  word  to  feel  within 

A  sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pity. 

And  what,  if  in  a  world  of  sin 

(O  sorrow  and  shame  should  this  bo  true!) 

Such  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 

Comes  seldom  save  from  rage  and  pain, 

So  talks  as  it's  most  used  to  do. 


KUBLA  KHAN;  OR,  A  VISION  IN  A  DREAM. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

THE  following:  fragment  is  here  published  at  the  request  of  a  poet 
of  great  and  deserved  celebrity,  and  as  far  as  the  Author's  own 
opinions  are  concerned,  rather  as  a  psychological  curiosity,  than  on 
the  ground  of  any  supposed  poetic  merits. 

|  In  the  summer  of  the  year  1797,  the  Author,  then  in  ill  health, 
/  had  retired  to  a  lonely  farm  house  between  Porlock  and  Linton,  on 
the  Exmoor  confines  of  Somerset  and  Devonshire.  In  consequence 
of  a  slight  indisposition,  an  anodyne  had  been  prescribed,  from  the 
effects  of  which  he  fell  asleep  in  his  chair  at  the  moment  that  he 
was  reading  the  following  sentence,  or  words  of  the  same  sub- 
stance, in  "Purchas's  Pilgrimage:"  "Here  the  Khan  Kubla  com- 
manded a  palace  to  be  built,  and  a  stately  garden  thereunto.  And 
thus  ten  miles  of  fertile  ground  were  inclosed  with  a  wall."  The 
author  continued  for  about  three  hours  in  a  profound  sleep,  at 
least  of  the  external  senses,  during  which  time  he  has  the  most 
vivid  confidence,  that  he  could  not  have  composed  less  than  from 
two  to  three  hundred  lines;  if  that  indeed  can  be  called  composi- 
tion in  which  all  the  images  rose  up  before  him  as  things,  with  a 
parallel  production  of  the  correspondent  expressions,  without  any 
sensation  or  consciousness  of  effort.  On  awaking  he  appeared  to 
himself  to  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  the  whole,  and  taking  his 
pen,  ink,  and  paper,  instantly  and  eagerly  wrote  down  the  lines 
that  are  here  preserved.  At  this  moment  he  was  unfortunately 
called  out  by  a  person  on  business  from  Porlock,  and  detained  by 
him  above  an  hour,  and  on  his  return  to  his  room,  found  to  his  no 
small  surprise  and  mortification,  that  though  he  still  retained 
some  vague  and  dim  recollection  of  the  general  purport  of  the 
vision,  yet,  with  the  exception  of  some  eight  or  ten  scattered  lines 
and  images,  all  the  rest  had  passed  away  like  the  images  on  the 
surface  of  a  stream  into  which  a  stone  had  been  cast,  but,  alas! 
without  the  after  restoration  of  the  latter: 

Then  all  the  charm 

Is  broken — all  that  phantom-world  so  fair 
Vanishes,  and  a  thousand  circlets  spn  ad, 
And  each  mis-shape  the  other.    Stay  awhile, 
Poor  youth!  who  scarcely  darest  lift  up  thine  eyes—- 
The stream  will  soon  renew  its  smoothness,  soon 
The  visions  will  return !    And  lo,  he  stays, 
And  soon  the  fragments  dim  of  lovely  forms 
Come  trembling  back,  unite,  and  now  once  more 
The  pool  becomes  a  mirror. 

Yet  from  the  still  surviving  recollections  in  his  mind  the  Author 
B* 


34      *  KUBLA  KHAN. 

has  frequently  purposed  to  finish  for  himself  what  had  been  orig- 
inally, as  it  were,  given  to  him,  2a/mepov  adiov  aaw:  but  the  to-morrow 
is  yet  to  come. 

As  a  contrast  to  this  vision,  I  have  annexed  a  fragment  of  a  very 
different  character,  describing  with  equal  fidelity  the  dream  of 
pain  and  disease.  Note  to  the  first  edition,  1816. 

IN  Xanadu  did  KUBLA  KHAN 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree : 
Where  ALPH,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round : 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh !  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover! 
A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
J^-*-^  -^-^\^>jLa^y  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover! 

(And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced: 
Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragment.-s  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 
Or  chaify  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail : 
And 'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  aiid  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran. 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  t  >  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean  : 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 
Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice! 
A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 
In  a  vision  once  I  saw  : 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid 
And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 
Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 
Could  I  revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me. 


THE  PAINS  OF  SLEEP.  35 

That  with  music  loud  and  long, 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 

That  sunny  dome !  those  caves  of  ice ! 

And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 

And  all  should  cry,  Beware !  Beware ! 

His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair! 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 

For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


THE  PAINS  OF  SLEEP. 

ERE  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay, 
It  hath  not  been  my  use  to  pray 
With  moving  lips  or  bended  knees ; 
But  silently,  by  slow  degrees, 
My  spirit  I  to  Love  compose, 
In  humble  Trust  mine  eye-lids  close, 
With  reverential  resignation, 
No  wish  conceived,  no  thought  expressed! 
Only  a  sense  of  supplication, 
A  sense  o'er  all  my  soul  impressed 
That  I  am  weak,  yet  not  unblest, 
iSince  in  me,  round  me,  every  where 
(Eternal  Strength  and  Wisdom  are. 

But  yester-night  I  prayed  aloud 

In  anguish  and  in  agony, 

Up-starting  from  the  fiendish  crowd 

Of  shapes  and  thoughts  that  tortured  me : 

A  lurid  light,  a  trampling  throng, 

Sense  of  intolerable  wrong, 

And  whom  I  scorned,  those  only  strong! 

Thirst  of  revenge,  the  powerless  will 

Still  baffled,  and  yet  burning  still! 

Desire  with  loathing  strangely  mixed 

On  wild  or  hateful  objects  fixed. 

Fantastic  passions!  maddening  brawl! 

And  shame  and  terror  over  all! 

Deeds  to  be  hid  which  were  not  hid, 

Which  all  confused  I  could  not  know, 

Whether  I  suffered,  or  I  did  : 

For  all  seemed  guilt,  remorse  or  woe, 

My  own  or  others  still  the  same 

Life-stifling  fear,  soul-stifling  shame. 

So  two  nights  passed  :  the  night's  dismay 
Saddened  and  stunned  the  coming  day. 


36 


LOVE. 


Sleep,  the  wide  blessing,  seemed  to  me 

Distemper's  worst  calamity. 

The  third  night,  when  my  own  loud  scream 

Had  waked  me  iroin  the  fiendish  dream, 

Overcome  with  sufferings  strange  and  wild, 

I  wept  as  I  had  been  a  child  ; 

And  having  thus  by  tears  subdued 

My  anguish  to  a  milder  mood, 
|  Such  punishments,  I  said,  were  due 
I  To  natures  deepliest  stained  with  sin  : 

For  aye  entempesting  anew 

The  unfathomable  hell  within 

The  horror  of  their  deeds  to  view, 

To  know  and  loathe,  yet  wish  and  do ! 

Such  griefs  with  such  men  well  agree, 

But  wherefore,  wherefore  fall  on  me  ? 

To  be  beloved  is  all  I  needL 

A"ml  whom  1  love,  1  love  indeed. 


LOVE. 

ALL  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Geiievieve ! 

She  leant  against  the  armed  man, 

The  statue  of  the  armed  knight  j 

She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 

Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own. 
My  hope !  my  joy  !  my  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
1  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 


LOVE.  37 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  chuse 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Laud. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined ;  and  ah ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace , 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face ! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night  j 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade. 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight ! 

And  that  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  baud, 
And  saved  from  outrage  wor^e  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land  ;— 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees  , 
And  how  she  tended  him  iu  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain  ; — 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave  ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay. 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reached 

That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 

My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 

Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  ! 


38  LOVE. 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Gencvieve ; 
The  music,  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love,  and  virgin-shame  ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepped  aside, 
As  conscious  of  iny  look  she  stepped — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  lied  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  mo  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  Love,  and  partly  Fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  wsis  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

JMy  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 


JUVENILE    POEMS. 


GENEVIEVE. 

MAID  of  my  Love,  sweet  GENEVIEVE! 

In  Beauty's  light  you  glide  along : 

Your  eye  is  like  tlie  star  of  eve, 

And  sweet  your  Voice,  as  Seraph's  song. 

Yet  not  your  heavenly  Beauty  gives 

This  heart  with  passion  soft  to  glow  : 

Within  your  soul  a  VOICE  there  lives! 

It  bids  yon  hear  the  tale  of  Woe. 

When  sinking  low  the  Sufferer  wan 

Beholds  no  hand  outstretched  to  save, 

Fair,  as  the  bosom  of  the  Swan 

That  rises  graceful  o'er  the  wave, 

I've  seen  yonr  breast  with  pity  heave, 

And  therefore  love  I  you,  sweet  GENEVIEVK  ! 


MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  CHATTERTON. 

WHEN  faint  and  sad  o'er  Sorrow's  desert  wild 
Slow  journeys  onward  poor  Misfortune's  child; 
When  fades  each  lovely  form  by  Fancy  drest, 
And  inly  pines  the  self-consuming  breast ; 
No  scourge  of  scorpions  in  thy  right  arm  dread, 
No  helmed  terrors  nodding  o'er  thy  head, 
Assume,  O  DEATH  !   the  cherub  Avings  of  PEACE, 
And  bid  the  heart-sick  Wanderer's  anguish  cease  ! 

Thee,  CHATTEUTON!  yon  unblest  stones  protect 
From  Want,  and  the  bleak  Freezings  of  neglect! 
Escap'd  the  sore  wounds  of  Affliction's  rod, 
Meek  at  the  Throne  of  Mercy,  and  of  God, 
Perchance,  thou  raisest  high  the  enraptured  hymn 
Amid  the  blaze  of  Seraphim ! 

\Yet  oft  ('tis  Nature's  bosom-startling  call) 
I  weep,  that  heaven-born  Genius  so  should  fall; 


40  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

Arid  oft,  in  Fancy's  saddest  hour,  my  soul 

Averted  shudders  at  the  poisoned  howl. 

Now  groans  my  sickening  heart,  as  still  I  view 

Thy  corse  of  livid  hue ; 
And  now  a  flash  of  indignation  high 
Darts  through  the  tear  that  glistens  in  mine  eye ! 

Is  this  the  land  of  song-ennohled  line? 

Is  this  the  land,  where  Genius  ne'er  in  vain 

Poured  forth  his  lofty  strain  ? 
Ah  me!  yet  SPENSER,  gentlest  hard  divine, 
Beneath  chill  Disappointment's  shade, 
His  weary  limbs  in  lonely  anguish  laid 

And  o'er  her  darling  dead 

PITY  hopeless  hung  her  head, 
While  "  mid  the  pelting  of  that  merciless  storm," 
Sunk  to  the  cold  earth  OTWAY'S  famished  form ! 

Sublime  of  thought,  and  confident  of  fame, 

From  vales  where  Avon  winds  the  MINSTREL*  came, 

Light-hearted  youth  !  aye,  as  lie  hastes  along, 

He  meditates  the  future  song, 
How  dauntless  ^Ella  frayed  the  Dacyau  foes  j 

And,  as  floating  high  in  air 

Glitter  the  sunny  visions  fair, 
His  eyes  dance  rapture,  and  his  bosom  glows! 
Friend  to  the  friendless,  to  the  sick  man  health, 
With  generous  joy  he  views  the  ideal  wealth  ; 
He  hears  the  widow's  heaven-breathed  prayer  of  praise; 
He  marks  the  sheltered  orphan's  tearful  gaze ; 
Or,  where  the  sorrow-shrivelled  captive  lay, 
Pours  the  bright  blaze  of  Freedom's  noon-tide  ray : 
And  now,  indignant,  "  grasps  the  patriot  stn-1," 
And  her  own  iron  rod  he  makes  Oppression  feel. 

Clad  in  Nature's  rich  array, 

And  bright  in  all  her  tender  hues, 
Sweet  tree  of  Hope !  thou  loveliest  child  of  Spring ! 
How  fair  didst  thou  disclose  thine  early  bloom. 

Loading  the  west-winds  with  its  soft  perfume! 
And  Fancy,  elfin  form  of  gorgeous  wing, 

On  every  blossom  hung  her  fostering  dews, 

That  changeful,  wantoned  to  the  orient  day  ! 
But  soon  upon  thy  poor  unsheltered  head 
Did  Penury  her  sickly  mildew  shed: 
And  soon  the  scathing  Lightning  bade  thee  stand, 
In  frowning  horror  o'er  the  blighted  land ! 

Ah  where  are  fled  the  charms  of  vernal  Grace, 

And  Joy's  wild  gleams  that  lightened  o'er  thy  face  T 

*  Avon,  a  river  near  Bristol;  the  birth-place  of  Chatterton. 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  41 

YOUTH  of  tumultuous  soul,  and  haggard  eye! 
Thy  wasted  form,  thy  hurried  steps  I  view, 
Ou  thy  cold  forehead  starts  the  anguished  dew, 
And  dreadful  was  that  bosom-rending  sigh  ! 

Such  were  the  struggles  of  the  gloomy  hour, 

When  CARE,  of  withered  brow, 
Prepared  the  poison's  death-cold  power : 
Already  to  thy  lips  was  raised  the  bowl, 
When  near  thee  stood  AFFECTION  rueek 
(Her  bosom  bare,  and  wildly  pale  her  cheek) 
Thy  sullen  gaze  she  bade  thee  roll 
On  scenes  that  well  might  melt  thy  soul; 
Thy  native  cot  she  flashed  upon  thy  view, 
Thy  native  cot,  where  still,  at  close  of  day, 
PEACE  smiling  sate,  and  listened  to  thy  lay ; 
Thy  Sister's  shrieks  she  bade  thee  hear, 
And  mark  thy  Mother's  thrilling  tear; 

See,  see  her  breast's  convulsive  throe, 
Her  silent  agony  of  woe  ! 
Ah !  dash  the  poisoned  chalice  from  thy  hand ! 

And  thou  had'st  dashed  it,  at  her  soft  command, 

But  that  DESPAIR  and  INDIGNATION  rose, 

And  told  again  the  story  of  thy  woes ; 

Told  the  keen  insult  on  the  unfeeling  heart ; 

The  dread  dependence  on  the  low-born  mind  ; 

Told  every  pang,  with  which  thy  soul  must  smart, 

Neglect,  and  grinning  Scorn,  and  WTant  combined! 

Recoiling  quick,  thou  bad'st  the  friend  of  pain 

Roll  the  black  tide  of  Death  through  every  freezing  vein ! 

Ye  woods!  that  wave  o'er  Avon's  rocky  steep, 
To  Fancy's  ear  sweet  is  your  murmuring  deep ! 
For  here  she  loves  the  cypress  wreath  to  wave  ; 
Watching,  with  wistful  eye,  the  saddening  tints  of  eve. 
Here,  far  from  men,  amid  this  pathless  grove, 
In  solemn  thought  the  Minstrel  wont  to  roam, 
Like  star-beam  on  the  slow  sequestered  tide 
Lone-glittering,  through  the  high  tree  branching  wide. 
And  here,  in  INSPIRATION'S  eager  hour, 
When  most  the  big  soul  feels  the  maddening  power, 
These  wilds,  these  caverns  roaming  o'er, 
Round  which  the  screaming  sea-gulls  soar, 
With  wild  unequal  steps  he  passed  along 
Oft  pouring  on  the  winds  a  broken  song : 
Anon,  upon  some  rough  rock's  fearful  brow 
Would  pause  abrupt— and  gaze  upon  the  waves  below. 

Poor  CHATTERTON  !  Tie  sorrows  for  thy  fate 

Who  would  have  praised  and  loved  thee,  ere  too  late. 


42  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

Poor  CHATTERTON  !  farewell !  of  darkest  hues 
This  chaplet  cast  I  on  thy  unshaped  tomb ; 
Bat  dare  no  longer  on  the  sad  theme  muse, 
Lest  kindred  woes  persuade  a  kindred  doom : 
For  oh !  big  gall-drops,  shook  from  FOLLY'S  wing, 
Have  blackened  the  fair  promise  of  my  spring  ; 
And  the  stern  FATE  transpierced  with  viewless  dart 
The  last  pale  Hope  that  shivered  at  my  heart ! 

Hence,  gloomy  thoughts  !  no  more  my  soul  shall  dwell 

On  joys  that  were !    No  more  endure  to  weigh 

The  shame  and  anguish  of  the  evil  day, 

Wisely  forgetful!     O'er  the  ocean  swell 

Sublime  of  Hope  I  seek  the  cottaged  dell 

Where  VIRTUE  calm  with  careless  step  may  stray  j 

And,  dancing  to  the  moon-light  roundelay, 

The  wizard  PASSIONS  weave  a  holy  spell  f 

O  CHATTERTON!  that  thou  wert  yet  alive! 
Sure  thou  woukl'st  spread  the  canvas  to  the  gale, 
And  love,  with  us,  the  tinkling  team  to  drive 
O'er  peaceful  Freedom's  undivided  dale  ; 
And  we,  at  sober  eve,  would  round  thee  throng, 
Hanging,  enraptured,  on  thy  stately  song! 
And  greet  with  smiles  the  youug-eyed  PJOESY 
All  deftly  masked,  as  hoar  ANTIQUITY. 

Alas  vain  Phantasies !  the  fleeting  brood 
Of  Woo  self-solaced  in  her  dreamy  mood ! 
Yet  will  I  love  to  follow  the  sweet  dream, 
Where  Susquehann:ih  pours  his  untamed  stream ; 
And  on  some  hill,  whoso  forest-frowning  side 
Waves  o'er  the  murmurs  of  lira  calmer  tide, 
Will  raise  a  solemn  CENOTAPH  to  thee, 
Sweet  Harper  of  time-shrouded  MINSTRKLSY  ! 
And  there,  soothed  sadly  by  the  dirge ful  wind, 
Muse  on  the  sore  ills  I  had 'left  behind. 


SONNET. 

TO  THE  AUTUMNAL  MOON. 

MILD  Splendour  of  the  various- vested  Night! 
Mother  of  wildly- workyig  visions !  hail ! 
I  watch  thy  gliding,  while  with  watery  light 
Thy  weak  eye  glimmers  thrftugh  a  fleecy  veil ; 
And  when  thou  lovest  thy  pale  orb  to  shroud 
Behind  the  gathered  blackness  lost  on  high  ; 
And  when  thou  dartest  from  the  wind-rent  cloud 
Thy  placid  lightning  o'er  the  awakened  sky. 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  43 

Ah  such  is  HOPE  !  as  changeful  and  as  fair  ! 
Now  dimly  peering  on  the  wistful  sight ; 
Now  hid  behind  the  dragon- winged  Despair : 
But  soon  emerging  in  her  radiant  might 
She  o'er  the  sorrow-clouded  breast  of  Caro 
Sails,  like  a  meteor  kindling  in  its  flight. 


TIME,  REAL  AND  IMAGINARY. 

AN  ALLEGORY. 

ON  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head, 
(I  knew  not  where,  but  'twas  some  faery  place) 
Their  pinions,  ostrich-like,  for  sails  outspread, 
Two  lovely  children  run  an  endless  race, 

A  sister  and  a  brother ! 

This  far  outstripped  the  other ; 
Yet  ever  run  she  with  reverted  face, 
And  looks  and  listens  for  the  boy  behind  : 

For  he,  alas !  is  blind ! 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  with  even  step  ho  passed, 
And  knows  not  whether  he  be  first  or  last. 


SONGS  OF  THE  PIXIES. 

The  PIXIES,  in  the  superstition  of  Devonshire,  are  a  race  of  beings 
invisibly  small,  and  harmless  or  friendly  to  man.  At  a  small  dis- 
tance from  a  village  in  that  county,  half  way  up  a  wood  covered 
hill,  is  an  excavation,  called  the  Pixies'  Parlour.  The  roots  of  old 
trees  form  its  ceiling:  and  on  its  sides  are  innumerable  cyphers, 
among1  which  the  author  discovered  his  own  cypher  and  those  of 
his  brothers,  cut  by  the  hand  of  iheir  childhood.  At  the  foot  of  the 
hill  flows  the  river  Otter. 

To  this  place  the  Author  conducted  a  party  of  young  Ladies, 
during  the  Summer  months  of  the  year  1793;  one  of  whom,  of 
stature  elegantly  small,  and  of  complexion  colourless  yet  clear, 
was  proclaimed  the  Fairy  Queen:  on  which  occasion  the  following 
Irregular  Ode  was  written  : 


WHOM  the  untaught  Shepherds  call 

PIXIES  in  their  madrigal, 
Fancy's  children,  here  we  dwell : 

Welcome,  LADIES  !  to  our  cell. 
Here  the  wren  of  softest  note 

Builds  its  nest  and  warbles  well ; 
Here  the  blackbird  strains  his  throat: 

Welcome,  LADIES  !  to  our  cell. 

ii. 

When  fades  the  moon  all  shadowy  pale 
And  scuds  the  cloud  before  the  gale, 


41  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

Ere  Mora  with  living  gems  bedight 
Purples  the  East  with  streaky  light, 
We  sip  the  furze-flower's  fragrant  dews 
Clad  in  robes  of  rainbow  hues 
Richer  than  the  deepened  bloom 
That  glows  on  Summer's  lily-scented  plurnc 
Or  sport  amid  the  rosy  gleam 
Soothed  by  the  distant-tinkling  team, 
While  lusty  Labour  scouting  sorrow 
Bids  the  Dame  a  glad  good-morrow, 
Who  jogs  the  accustomed  road  along, 
And  paces  cheery  to  her  cheering  song. 

m. 

But  not  our  filmy  pinion 
We  scorch  amid  the  blaze  of  day, 
When  Noontide's  fiery-tressed  minion 
Flashes  the  fervid  ray. 
Aye  from  the  sultry  heat 
We  to  the  cave  retreat 
O'ercanopied  by  huge  roots  intertwined 
With  wildest  texture,  blackened  o'er  with  age : 
Koimd  them  their  mantle  green  the  ivies  bind, 
Beneath  whose  foliage  pale 
Fanned  by  the  unfrequent  gale 
We  shield  us  from  the  Tyrant's  mid-day  rage. 


Thither,  while  the  murmuring  throng 
Of  wild-bees  hum  their  drowsy  song, 
By  Indolence  and  Fancy  brought, 
A  youthful  BAUD,  "  unknown  to  Fame," 
Wooes  the  Queen  of  Solemn  Thought, 
And  heaves  the  gentle  misery  of  a  sigh 

(Ja/.ing  with  tearful  eye, 
As  round  our  sandy  grot  appear 
Many  a  rudely  sculptured  name 

To  pensive  Memory  dear ! 
Weaving  gay  dreams  of  sunny-tinctured  hue 

We  glance  before  his  view: 

O'er  his  hush'd  soul  our  soothing  witcheries  shed, 
And  twine  our  faery  garlands  round  his  head. 

V. 

When  EVENING'S  dusky  car 

Crowned  with  her  dewy  star 
Steals  o'er  the  fading  sky  in  shadowy  flight f 

On  leaves  of  aspen  trees 

AVe  tremble  to  tho  breeze 
Veiled  from  the  grosser  ken  of  mortal  sight. 


JUVENILE  POEM'S.  45 

Or,  haply,  at  the  visionary  hour, 
Along  our  wildly-bowered,  sequestered  wall:, 
We  listen  to  the  enamoured  rustic's  talk  ; 
Heave  with  the  heavings  of  the  maiden's  breast, 
Where  young-eyed  LOVES  have  huilt  their  turtle  nest ; 

Or  guide  of  soul-subduing  power 
The  electric  flash,  that  from  the  melting  eye 
Darts  the  fond  question  and  the  soft  reply. 

VI. 

Or  through  the  mystic  ringlets  of  the  vale 
We  flash  our  faery  feet  in  gamesome  prank ; 
Or,  f  ilent-sandal'd,  pay  our  defter  court 
Circling  the  SPIRIT  of  the  WESTERN  GALE, 
Where,  wearied  with  his  flower-caressing  sport, 
Supine  he  slumbers  on  a  violet  bank ; 
Then  with  quaint  music  hymn  the  parting  gleam, 
]>y  lonely  OTTER'S  sleep-persuading  stream; 
Or  where  his  wave  with  loud  unquiet  song 
Dashed  o'er  the  rocky  channel  froth  along; 
Or  where,  his  silver  waters  smoothed  to  rest, 
The  tall  tree's  shadow  sleeps  upon  his  breast. 

Vli. 

Hence !  thou  lingerer,  LIGHT  ! 
EVE  saddens  into  NIGHT. 
Mother  of  wildly- working  dreams  I  we  view 
The  SOMBRE  HOURS,  that  round  theo  stand 
With  down-cast  eyes  (a  duteous  band !) 
Their  dark  robes  dripping  with  the  heavy  dew. 
SORCERESS  of  the  ebon  throne! 
Thy  power  the  PIXIES  own, 
When  round  thy  raven  brow 
Heaven's  lucent  roses  glow, 
And  clouds,  in  watery  colours  drest, 
Float  in  light  drapery  o'er  thy  sable  vest : 
What  time  the  pale  moon  sheds  a  softer  day 
Mellowing  the  woods  beneath  its  pensive  beam: 
For  mid  the  quivering  light  'tis  our's  to  play, 
Aye  dancing  to  the  cadence  of  the  stream. 

VIII. 

Welcome,  LADIES  !  to  the  cell 
Where  the  blameless  PIXIES  dwell : 
But  thou  sweet  Nymph!  proclaimed  our  Faery  Queen, 
With  what  obeisance  meet 
Thy  presence  shall  we  greet  ? 
For  lo!  attendant  on  thy  steps  are  seen 
Graceful  EASE  in  artless  stole, 
And  white-robed  PURITY  of  soul, 
With  HONOUR'S  softer  mien ; 


46  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

MIRTH  of  the  loosely-flowing  hair, 
And  ineek  eyed  PITY  eloquently  fair, 

Whose  tearful  cheeks  are  lovely  to  the  view, 
As  snow-drop  wet  with  dew. 


Uuboastful  Maid !  though  now  the  LILY  pale 

Transparent  grace  thy  beauties  ineek ; 
Yet  ere  again  along  the  impurpling  vale, 
The  purpling  vale  and  elfin-haunted  grove, 
Young  Zephyr  his  fresh  flowers  profusely  throws, 

We'll  tinge  with  livelier  hues  thy  cheek  ; 

And,  haply,  from  the  nectar-breathing  ROSE 

Extract  a  BLUSH  for  LOVE  ! 


THE  RAVEN. 

A  CHRISTMAS   TALE,  TOLD   BY  A  SCHOOLBOY  TO  HIS  LITTLE 
BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS. 

UNDERNEATH  a  huge  oak  tree 

There  was,  of  swine,  a  huge  company, 

That  grunted  as  they  crunched  the  mast : 

For  that  was  ripe,  and  fell  full  fast. 

Then  they  trotted  away,  for  the  wind  grew  high  : 

One  acorn  they  left,  and  not  moire  might  you  spy. 

Next  came  a  Raven,  that  liked  not  such  folly: 

He  belonged,  they  did  say,  to  the  witch  Melancholy  1 

Blacker  was  he  than  blackest  jet, 

Flew  low  in  the  rain,  and  his  feathers  not  wet. 

He  picked  up  the  acorn  and  buried  it  straight 

By  the  side  of  a  river  both  deep  and  great. 
Where  then  did  the  Raveu  go? 
He  went  high  and  low, 

Over  hill,  over  dale,  did  the  black  Raveu  go. 
Many  Autumns,  many  Springs 
Travelled  he  with  wandering  wings: 
Many  Summers,  many  Winters — 
I  can't  tell  half  his  adventures. 

At  length  he  came  back,  and  with  him  a  She, 

And  the  acorn  was  grown  to  a  tall  oak  tree. 

They  built  them  a  nest  in  the  topmost  bough, 

And  young  ones  they  had,  and  were  happy  enow. 

But  soon  came  a  woodman  in  leathern  guise, 

His  brow,  like  a  pent-house,  hung  over  his  eyes. 

He'd  an  axe  in  his  hand,  not  a  word  he  spoke, 

But  with  many  a  hem  !  and  a  sturdy  stroke, 

At  length  he  brought  dowu  the  poor  Raven's  own  oak. 


JUVENILE  TOEMS.  47 

His  young  ones  were  killed  ;  for  they  could  not  depart, 
And  their  mother  did  die  of  a  broken  heart. 

The  boughs  from  the  trunk  the  woodman  did  sever ; 
And  they  floated  it  down  on  the  course  of  the  river. 
They  sawed  it  in  planks,  and  its  bark  they  did  strip, 
And  with  this  tree  and  others  they  made  a  good  ship. 
The  ship,  it  wns  launched  ;  but  in  sight  of  the  land 
Such  a  storm  there  did  rise  as  no  ship  could  withstand. 
It  bulged  on  a  rock,  and  the  waves  rushed  in  fast : 
The  old  raven  flew  round  and  round,  and  cawed  to  the 

blast. 

He  heard  the  last  shriek  of  the  perishing  souls — 
See !  see !  o'er  the  topmast  the  mad  water  rolls ! 

Right  glad  was  the  Raven,  and  off  he  went  fleet, 
And  Death  riding  home  on  a  cloud  he  did  meet, 
And  he  thanked  him  again  and  again  for  this  treat : 

They  had  taken  his  all,  and  REVENGE  WAS  SWEET  ! 


ABSENCE. 

A  FAREWELL  ODE    ON    QUITTING  SCHOOL    FOR  JESUS    COL- 
LEGE,   CAMBRIDGE. 

WHERE  graced  with  many  a  classic  spoil 

CAM  rolls  his  reverend  stream  along, 

I  haste  to  urge  the  learned  toil 

That  sternly  chides  my  love-lorn  song: 

Ah  me !  too  mindful  of  the  days 

Illumed  by  PASSION'S  orient  rays, 

When  Peace,  and  Cheerfulness,  and  Health 

Enriched  me  with  the  best  of  wealth. 

Ah  fair  Delights !  that  o'er  my  soul 
On  Memory's  w-ing,  like  shadows  fly  ! 
Ah  Flowers!   which  Joy  from  Eden  stole 
While  Innocence  stood  smiling  by  ! — 
But  cease,  fond  Heart !  this  bootless  moan  : 
Those  Hours  on  rapid  Pinions  flown 
Shall  yet  return  by  Absence  crowned, 
And  scatter  livelier  roses  round. 

The  SUN  who  ne'er  remits  his  fires 
On  heedless  eyes  may  pour  the  day: 
The  MOON,  that  oft  from  heaven  retires, 
Endears  her  renovated  ray. 
What  though  she  leaves  the  sky  unblest 
To  mourn  awhile  the  murky  vest  ? 
When  she  relumes  her  lovely  Light, 
We  BLESS  the  Wanderer  of  the  Night. 


48  JUVENILE  POEMS. 


WRITTEN  IN  EARLY   YOUTH.— THE  TIME  AN 
AUTUMNAL  EVENING. 

0  THOU  wild  FANCY,  cheek  thy  wing  !  No  more 
Those  thin  white  Hakes,  those  purple  clouds  explore  ! 
Nor  there  with  happy  spirits  speed  thy  flight 
Bathed  in  rich  amber-glowing  floods  of  light ; 

Nor  in  yon  gleam,  where  slow  descends  the  day, 

With  western  peasants  hail  the  morning  ray ! 

Ah  !  rather  bid  the  perished  pleasures  move, 

A  shadowy  train,  across  the  soul  of  Love ! 

O'er  Disappointment's  wintry  desert  fling 

Ea<  h  fl  >\ver  that  wreathed  the  dewy  locks  of  SPRIXG, 

When  blushing,  like  a  bride,  from  Hope's  trim  bower 

She  leapt,  awakened  by  the  pattering  shower. 

Now  shcrls  the  sinking  Sun  a  deeper  gleam, 

Aid,  lovely  Sorceress K  aid  thy  Poet's  dream ! 

With  faery  wand,  O  bid  the  MAID  arise, 

Chaste  Joyance  dancing  in  her  bright-blue  eyes  ; 

As  erst  when  from  the  Muses'  calm  abode 

1  came,  with  Learning's  meed  not  unbestowed : 
When  as  she  twined  a  laurel  round  my  brow, 
And  met  my  kiss,  and  half  returned  my  vow, 
O'er  all  my  frame  shot  rapid  my  thrilled  heart, 
And  every  nerve  confessed  the  electric  dart. 

0  dear  Deceit !  I  see  the  Maiden  rise, 

Chaste  Joyance  dancing  in  her  bright-blue  Eyes  I 
When  first  the  lark  high  soaring  swells  his  throat. 
Mocks  the  tired  eye,  and  scatters  the  loud  note, 

1  trace  her  footsteps  on  the  accustomed  lawn, 
I  mark  her  glancing  'mid  the  gleam  of  dawn. 
When  the  bent  flower  beneath  the  night  dew  weeps 
And  on  the  lake  the  silver  lustre  sleeps, 

Amid  the  paly  radiance  soft  and  sad, 
She  meets  my  lonely  path  in  moon-beams  clad. 
With  her  along  the  streamlet's  brink  I  rove; 
With  her  I  list  the  warblings  of  the  grove  ; 
And  seems  in  each  low  wind  her  voice  to  float 
Lone  whispering  Pity  in  each  soothing  note  ! 

SPIRITS  OF  LOVE  !  ye  heard  her  name  !  Obey 
The  powerful  spell,  and  to  my  haunt  repair. 
Whether  on  clustering  pinions  ye  are  there, 
Where  rich  snows  blossom  on  the  Myrtle  trees, 
Or  with  fond  langnishinent  around  my  fair 
Sigh  in  the  loose  luxuriance  of  her  hair ; 
O  heed  the  spell,  and  hither  wing  your  way, 
Like  far-off  music,  voyaging  the  breeze! 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  41) 

SPIRITS  !  to  you  the  infant  Maid  was  given 
Formed  by  the  wonderous  Alchemy  of  Heaven  i 

No  fairer  Maid  does  Love's  wide  empire  know, 
No  fairer  Maid  e'er  heaved  the  bosom's  snow. 
A  thousand  Loves  around  her  forehead  fly  j 
A  thousand  Loves  sit  melting  in  her  eye  ; 
Love  lights  her  smile — in  Joy's  red  nectar  dips 
His  myrtle  flower,  and  plants  it  on  her  lips. 
She  speaks !  and  hark  that  passion  warbled  song- 
Still,  Fancy !  still  that  voice,  those  notes  prolong. 
As  sweet  as  when  that  voice  with  rapturous  falls, 
Shall  wake  the  softened  echoes  of  Heaven's  Halls! 

O  (have  I  sighed)  were  mine  the  wizard's  rod, 
Or  mine  the  power  of  Proteus,  changeful  God! 
A  flower-entangled  ARBOUR  I  would  seem 
To  shield  my  Love  from  Noontide's  sultry  beam : 
Or  bloom  a  MYRTLE,  from  whose  odorous  boughs 
My  Love  might  weave  gay  garlands  for  her  brows. 
When  Twilight  stole  across  the  fading  vale, 
To  fan  my  Love  I'd  be  the  EVENING  GALE  ; 
Mourn  in  the  soft  folds  of- her  swelling  vest, 
And  flutter  my  faint  pinions  on  her  breast ! 
On  Seraph  wing  I'd  float  a  DREAM  by  night, 
To  sooth  my  Love  with  shadows  of  delight : — 
Or  soar  aloffc  to  be  the  SPANGLED  SKIES, 
And  gaze  upon  her  with  a  thousand  eyes ! 

As  when  the  Savage,  who  his  drowsy  frame 
Had  basked  beneath  the  Sun's  unclouded  flame, 
Awakes  amid  the  troubles  of  the  air, 
The  skiey  deluge,  and  white  lightning's  glare — 
Aghast  he  scours  before  the  tempest's  sweep, 
And  sad  recalls  the  sunny  hour  of  sleep  : — 
So  tossed  by  storms  along  Life's  wildering  way, 
Mine  eye  reverted  views  that  cloudless  day, 
When  by  my  native  brook  I  wont  to  rove 
While  HOPE  with  kisses  nursed  the  Infant  Love. 

Dear  native  brook !  like  PEACE  so  placidly 
Smoothing  through  fertile  fields  thy  current  meek ! 
Dear  native  brook  !  where  first  young  POESY 
Stared  wildly-eager  in  her  noontide  dream, 
Where  blameless  pleasures  dimple  QUIET'S  cheek, 
As  water-lilies  ripple  thy  slow  stream  ! 
Dear  native  haunts !  where  Virtue  still  is  gay, 
Where  Friendship's  fixed  star  sheds  a  mellowed  ray, 
Where  LOVE  a  crown  of  thoruless  Roses  wears, 
Where  softened  SORROW  smiles  within  her  tears  ; 
And  MEMORY,  with  a  VESTAL'S  chaste  employ, 
Unceasing  feeds  the  lambent  flame  of  joy  ! 
c 


50  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

No  more  your  sky-larks  melting  from  the  sight 
Shall  thrill  the  attuned  heart-string  with  delight — 
No  more  shall  deck  your  pensive  Pleasures  sweet 
With  wreaths  of  sober  hue  my  evening  seat. 
Yet  dear  to  Fancy's  eye  your  varied  scene 
Of  wood,  hill,  dale,  and  sparkling  brook  between ! 
Yet  sweet  to  Fancy's  ear  the  warbled  song, 
That  soars  on  Morning's  wing  your  vales  among. 

Scenes  of  my  Hope !  the  aching  eye  ye  leave 
Like  yon  bright  hues  that  paint  the  clouds  of  eve! 
Tearful  and  saddening  with  the  saddened  blaze 
Mine  eye  the  gleam  pursues  with  wistful  gaze : 
Sees  shades  on  shades  with  deeper  tint  impend, 
Till  chill  and  damp  the  moonless  night  descend. 


THE  KISS. 

ONE  kiss,  dear  Maid !  I  said  and  sighed — 
Your  scorn  the  little  boon  denied. 
Ah  why  refuse  the  blameless  bliss  ? 
Can  danger  lurk  within  a  kiss  ? 

Yon  viewless  Wanderer  of  the  vale, 
The  SPIRIT  of  the  Western  Gale, 
At  Morning's  break,  at  Evening's  close 
Inhales  the  sweetness  of  the  ROSE, 
And  hovers  o'er  the  uninjured  Bloom 
Sighing  back  the  soft  perfume. 
Vigour  to  the  Zephyr's  wing 
Her  nectar-breathing^  KISSES  fling ; 
And  He  the  glitter  of  the  Dew 
Scatters  on  the  ROSE'S  hue. 
Bashful  lo  !  she  bends  her  head, 
And  darts  a  blush  of  deeper  Red ! 

Too  well  those  lovely  lips  disclose 
The  Triumphs  of  the  opening  Rose  ; 
O  fair !  O  graceful !  bid  them  prove 
As  passive  to  the  breath  of  Love. 
In  tender  accents,  faint  and  low, 
Well-pleased  I  hear  the  whispered  "No P' 
The  whispered  " No" — how  little  meant ! 
Sweet  Falsehood  that  endears  Consent  I 
For  on  those  lovely  lips  the  while 
Dawns  the  soft  relenting  smile, 
And  tempts  with  feigned  dissuasion  coy 
The  gentle  violence  of  Joy. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


THE  ROSE. 

As  late  each  flower  that  sweetest  blows 
I  plucked,  the  Garden's  pride! 
Within  the  petals  of  a  Rose 
A  sleeping  Love  I  spied. 

Around  his  brows  a  beamy  wreath 
Of  many  a  lucent  hue ; 
All  purple  glowed  his  cheek,  beneath, 
Inebriate  with  dew. 

I  softly  seized  the  unguarded  Power, 
Nor  scared  his  balmy  rest ; 
And  placed  him,  caged  within  the  flower, 
On  Spotless  SARA'S  breast. 

But  when  unweeting  of  the  guile 
Awoke  the  prisoner  sweet, 
He  struggled  to  escape  awhile 
Aud  stamped  his  faery  feet. 

Ah !  soon  the  soul-entrancing  sight 
Subdued  the  impatient  boy  ! 
Ho  gazed  1  he  thrilled  with  deep  delight! 
Then  clapped  his  wings  for  joy. 

"  And  O!"  he  tried—'-  Of  magic  kind 
"What  charms  this  Throne  endear! 
"  Some  other  LOVE  let  Venus  find — 
"  I'll  fix  my  empire  here." 


TO  A  YOUNG  ASS. 

ITS  MOTHER  BEING  TETHERED  NEAR  IT. 

POOR  little  Foal  of  an  oppressed  Race ! 
I  love  the  languid  Patience  of  thy  face  : 
And  oft  with  gentle  hand  I  give  thee  bread, 
And  clap  thy  ragged  Coat,  and  pat  thy  head. 
But  what  thy  dulled  Spirits  hath  dismayed, 
That  never  thou  dost  sport  along  the  glade  ? 
And  (most  unlike  the  nature  of  things  young) 
That  earthward  still  thy  moveless  head  is  hung  ? 
Do  thy  prophetic  Fears  anticipate, 
Meek  Child  of  Misery !  thy  future  fate  T— . 
The  starving  meal,  and  all  the  thousand  aches 
"  Which  patient  Merit  of  the  Unworthy  takes  ?" 
Or  is  thy  sad  heart  thrilled  with  filial  pain 
To  see  thy  wretched  MOTHER'S  shortened  Chain  ? 


52  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

And  truly,  very  piteous  is  her  Lot — 
Chained  to  a  Log  within  a  narrow  spot 
"Where  the  close-eaten  Grass  is  scarcely  seen, 
While  sweet  around  her  waves  the  tempting  Green  ! 

Poor  Ass  !  thy  Master  should  have  learnt  to  shew 
Pity — best  taught  by  fellowship  of  Woe! 
For  much  I  fear  me  that  He  lives,  like  thee, 
Half  famished  in  a  land  of  Luxury ! 
How  askingly  its  footsteps  hither  bend  I 
It  seems  to  say,  "  And  have  I  then  one  Friend  ?" 
Innocent  Foal !  thou  poor  despised  Forlorn  ! 
I  hail  thee  BROTHER— spite  of  the  fool's  scorn ! 
And  fain  would  take  thee  with  me,  in  the  Dell, 
Of  Peace  and  mild  Equality  to  dwell, 
Where  TOIL  shall  call  the  charmer  HEALTH  his  Bride, 
And  LAUGHTKR  tickle  PLENTY'S  ribless  side ! 
How  thou  wouldst  toss  thy  heels  in  gamesome  play, 
And  frisk  about,  as  Lamb  or  Kitten  gay ! 
Yea !  and  more  musically  sweet  to  me 
Thy  dissonant  harsh  Bray  of  Joy  would  be, 
Than  warbled  Melodies  that  soothe  to  rest 
The  aching  of  pale  FASHION'S  vacant  breast ! 


THE    SIGH. 

WHEN  Youth  his  faery  reign  began 
Ere  Sorrow  had  proclaimed  me  man  ; 
While  Peace  the  present  hour  beguiled, 
And  all  the  lovely  Prospect  smiled : 
Then,  MARY  !  Jmid  my  lightsome  glee 
I  heaved  the  painless  SIGH  for  thee. 
And  when,  along  the  waves  of  woe, 
My  harrassed  Heart  was  doomed  to  know 
The  frantic  Burst  of  Outrage  keen, 
And  the  slow  Pang  that  gnaws  unseen  ; 
Then  shipwrecked  on  Life's  stormy  sea 
I  heaved  an  anguished  SIGH  for  thee  ! 
But  soon  Reflection's  power  imprest 
A  stiller  sadness  on  my  breast ; 
And  sickly  Hope  with  waning  eye 
Was  well  content  to  droop  and  die. 
I  yielded  to  the  stern  decree, 
Yet  heaved  a  languid  SIGH  for  thee  ; 
And  though  in  distant  climes  to  roam, 
A  wanderer  from  niy  native  home, 
I  fain  would  soothe  the  sense  of  Care 
And  lull  to  sleep  the  Joys  that  were ! 
Thy  Image  may  not  banished  be — 
Still,  Mary  !  still  I  SIGH  for  theo. 
June,  1794. 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  53 


DOMESTIC  PEACE. 

TELL  me,  on  what  holy  ground 
May  DOMESTIC  PEACE  be  found  ? 
Halcyon  Daughter  of  the  skies, 
Far  on  fearful  wings  she  flies, 
From  tho  pomp  of  Sceptered  State, 
From  the  Rebel's  noisy  hate. 
In  a  cottage  vale  She  dwells 
Listening  to  the  Sabbath  bells  ! 
S  ill  around  her  steps  are  seen 
Spotless  HONOUR'S  meeker  mien, 
LOVE,  tho  sire  of  pleasing  fears, 
SORROW  smiling  through  her  tears, 
And  conscious  of  the  past  employ 
MEMORY,  bosom-spring  of  joy. 


LINES  WRITTEN  AT  THE  KING'S- ARMS,  ROSS, 

FORMERLY  THE  HOUSE  OF   "THE  MAN  OF  ROSS." 

RICHER  than  MISER  o'er  his  countless  hoards, 

Nobler  than  KINGS,  or  king-polluted  LORDS, 

Here  dwelt  the  MAN  OF  Ross!  O  Traveller,  hear! 

Departed  Merit  claims  a  reverent  tear. 

Friend  to  the  friendless,  to  the  sick  man  health, 

With  generous  joy  he  viewed  his  modest  wealth: 

He  hears  the  widow's  heaven-breathed  prayer  of  praise, 

He  marks  the  sheltered  orphan's  tearful  gaze, 

Or  where  the  sorrow-shrivelled  captive  lay, 

Pours  the  bright  blaze  of  Freedom's  noontide  ray. 

Beneath  this  roof  if  thy  cheered  moments  pass, 

Fill  to  the  good  man's  name  one  grateful  glass: 

To  higher  zest  shall  MEMORY  wake  thy  soul, 

And  VIRTUE  mingled  in  the  ennobled  bowl. 

But  if,  like  me,  through  life's  distressful  scene 

Lonely  and  sad  thy  pilgrimage  hath  been  ; 

And  if,  thy  breast  with  heart-sick  anguish  fraught, 

Thou  journeyest  onward  tempest-tossed  in  thought ; 

Here  cheat  thy  cares !  in  generous  visions  melt, 

And  dream  of  Goodness,  thou  hast  never  felt! 


LINES  TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  SPRING  IN  A  VILLAGE. 
ONCE  more,  sweet  Stream !  with  slow  foot  wandering 

near, 

I  bless  thy  milky  waters  cold  and  clear. 
Escaped  the  flashing  of  the  noontide  hours 
With  one  fresh  garland  of  Pierian  flowers 


54  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

(Ere  from  thy  zephyr-haunted  brink  I  turn) 
My  languid  hand  shall  wreath  thy  mossy  urn. 
For  not  through  pathless  grove  with  nmrnmr  rude 
Thou  soothest  the  sad  wood-nymph,  SOLITUDE  ; 
Nor  thine  unseen  in  cavern  depths  to  well, 
The  HERMIT-FOUNTAIN  of  somo  dripping  cell ! 
Pride  of  the  Vale !  thy  useful  streams  supply 
The  scattered  cots  and  peaceful  hamlet  nigh. 
The  elfin  tribe  around  thy  friendly  banks 
With  infant  uproar  and  soul-soothing  pranks, 
Released  from  school,  their  little  hearts  at  rcct, 
Launch  paper  navies  on  thy  waveless  breast. 
The  rustic  here  at  eve  with  pensive  look 
Whistling  lorn  ditties  leans  upon  his  crook, 
Or  starting  pauses  with  hope-mingled  dread 
To  list  the  much-loved,  maid's  accustomed  tread : 
She,  vainly  mindful  of  her  dame's  command, 
Loiters,  the  long-filled  pitcher  in  her  hand. 
Unboastful  Stream!  thy  fount  with  pebbled  falls 
The  faded  form  of  past  delight  recalls, 
What  time  the  morning  sun  of  Hope  arose, 
And  all  was  joy ;  save  when  another's  woes 
A  transient  gloom  upon  my  soul  imprest, 
Like  passing  clouds  impictured  on  thy  breast. 
Life's  current  then  ran  sparkling  to  the  noon, 
Or  silvery  stole  beneath  the  pensive  Moon : 
Ah  !  now  it  works  rude  brakes  and  thorns  among, 
Or  o'er  the  rough  rock  bursts  aud  foams  along  1 


LINES  ON  A  FRIEND, 

WHO  DIED  OF  A  FRENZY  FEVER  INDUCED  BY  CALUMNIOUS 
REPORTS. 

EDMUND  !  thy  grave  with  aching  eye  I  scan, 

And  inly  groan  for  Heaven's  poor  outcast — Man ! 

'Tis  tempest  all  or  glooui :  in  early  youth 

If  gifted  with  the  Ithuriel  lance  of  Truth 

We  force  to  start  amid  her  feigned  caress 

VICE,  siren-hag !  in  native  ugliness ; 

A  Brother's  fate  will  haply  rouse  the  tear, 

And  on  we  go  in  heaviness  and  fear ! 

But  if  our  fond  hearts  call  to  PLEASURE'S  bower 

Some  pigmy  FOLLY  in  a  careless  hour, 

The  faithless  guest  shall  stamp  the  enchanted  ground 

And  mingled  forms  of  Misery  rise  around : 

Heart-fretting  FEAR,  with  pallid  look  aghast, 

That  courts  the  future  woe  to  hide  the  past ; 

REMORSE,  the  poisoned  arrow  in  his  sido, 

And  loud  lewd  MIRTH,  to  Anguish  close  allied: 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  55 

Till  FRENZY,  fierce-eyed  child  of  moping  pain. 
Darts  lier  hot  lightning  flash  athwart  the  brain. 
Rest,  injured  shade!    Shall  SLANDER  squatting  near 
Spit  her  cold  venom  in  a  DEAD  MAN'S  ear  1 
'Twas  thine  to  feel  the  sympathetic  glow 
In  Merit's  joy,  and  Poverty's  meek  woe ; 
Thine  all,  that  cheer  the  moment  as  it  flies, 
The  zoneless  CARES,  and  smiling  COURTESIES. 
Nursed  in  thy  heart  the  firmer  virtues  grew, 
And  in  thy  heart  they  withered!    Such  chill  dew 
Wan  INDOLENCE  on  each  young  blossom  shed ; 
And  VANITY  her  filmy  net- work  spread, 
With  eye  that  rolled  around  in  asking  gaze, 
And  tongue  that  trafficked  in  the  trade  of  praise, 
Thy  follies  such!  the  hard  world  marked  them  well—- 
Were they  more  wise,  the  PROUD  who  never  fell  f 
Rest,  injured  shade!  the  poor  man's  grateful  prayer 
On  heaven-ward  wing  thy  wounded  soul  shall  bear. 
As  oft  at  twilight  gloom  thy  grave  I  pass, 
And  sit  me  down  upon  its  recent  grass, 
With  introverted  eye  I  contemplate 
Similitude  of  soul,  perhaps  of — Fate! 
To  me  hath  Heaven  with  bounteous  hand  assigned 
Ener^ic  Reason  and  a  shaping  mind, 
The  daring  ken  of  Truth,  the  Patriot's  part, 
The  Pity's  sigh,  that  breathes  the  gentle  heart. 
Sloth- jaundiced  all !  and  from  my  graspless  hand 
Drop  Friendship's  precious  pearls,  like  hour-glass  sand. 
I  weep,  yet  stoop  not !  the  faint  anguish  flows, 
A  dreamy  pang  in  Morning's  feverish  doze. 

Is  this  piled  earth  our  Being's  passless  mound  f 
Tell  me,  cold  grave!  is  Death  with  poppies  crowned? 
Tired  Centinel !  mid  fitful  starts  I  nod, 
And  fain  would  sleep,  though  pillowed  on  a  clod! 


LINES 

COMPOSED  WHILE  CLIMBING  THE   LEFT  ASCENT  OF   BROCK- 
LEY  COOMB,    SOMERSETSHIRE,  MAY,   1795. 

WITH  many  a  pause  and  oft-reverted  eye 

I  climb  the  Coomb's  ascent:  sweet  songsters  near 

Wrarble  in  shade  their  wild- wood  melody  : 

Far  off  the  unvarying  Cuckoo  soothes  my  ear. 

Up  scour  the  startling  stragglers  of  the  Flock 

That  ou  green  plots  o'er  precipices  browse: 

From  the  forced  fissures  of  the  naked  rock 

The  Yew  tree  bursts !    Beneath  its  dark  green  boughs 

(Mid  which  the  May-thorn  blends  its  blossoms  white) 

Where  broad  smooth  stones  jut  out  in  mossy  seats, 


56  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

I  rest : — and  now  have  gained  the  topmost  site. 
Ah  !  what  a  luxury  of  landscape  meets 
My  gaze  !     Proud  Towers,  and  Cots  more  dear  to  me, 
Elm-shadowed  Fields,  and  prospect-bounding  Sea ! 
Deep  sighs  my  lonely  heart:  I  drop  the  tear  : 
Enchanting  spot !  O  were  my  SARA  here ! 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY,  WITH  A  POEM  ON  THE  FRENCH 
REVOLUTION. 

MUCH  on  my  early  youth  I  love  to  dwell, 

Ere  yet  I  bade  that  friendly  dome  farewell, 

Where  first,  beneath  the  echoing  cloisters  pale, 

I  heard  of  guilt  and  wondered  at  the  tale  f 

Yet  though  the  hours  flew  by  on  careless  wing, 

Full  heavily  of  Sorrow  would  I  sing. 

Aye  as  the  star  of  evening  flung  its  beam 

In  broken  radiance  on  the  wavy  stream, 

My  soul  amid  the  pensive  twilight  gloom 

Mourned  with  the  breeze,  O  LEE  Boo  !*  o'er  thy  tomb. 

Where'er  I  wandered,  PITY  still  w.is  near, 

Breathed  from  the  heart  and  glistened  in  the  tear: 

No  ki.ell  that  tolled,  but  filled  my  anxious  eye, 

And  suffering  Nature  wept  that  one  should  die  !t 

Thus  to  sad  sympathies  I  soothed  my  breast, 

Calm,  as  the  rainbow  in  the  weeping  West : 

When  slumbering  FREEDOM  roused  by  high  DISDAIN 

With  giant  fury  burst  her  triple  chain! 

Fierce  on  her  front  the  blasting  Dog-star  glowed  j 

Her  Banners,  like  a  midnight  Meteor,  flowed  ; 

Amid  the  yelling  of  the  storm-rent  skies 

She  came,  and  scattered  battles  from  her  eyes ! 

Then  EXULTATION  waked  the  patriot  fire 

And  swept  with  wilder  hand  the  Alcosan  lyre : 

Red  from  the  Tyrant's  wound  I  shook  the  lanco, 

And  strode  in  joy  the  reeking  plains  of  France! 

Fallen  is  the  oppressor,  friendless,  ghastly,  low, 
And  my  heart  aches,  though  MERCY  struck  the  blow. 
With  wearied  thought  once  more  I  seek  the  shade, 
Where  peaceful  Virtue  weaves  the  MYRTLE  braid. 
And  O !  If  EYES  whose  holy  glances  roll, 
Swift  messengers,  and  eloquent  of  soul; 
If  SMILES  more  winning,  and  a  gentler  MIEN 
Than  the  love-wildered  Maniac's  brain  hath  seen 

*  LEE  Boo,  tho  son  of  ABBA  THULE,  Prince  of  the  Pelew  Islands, 
came  over  to  England  with  Captain  Wilson,  died  of  the  small-pox, 
and  is  buried  in  Greenwich  church-yard.  See  Keate's  Account. 

t  Southey's  Retrospect. 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  57 

Shaping  celestial  forms  in  vacant  air, 
If  these  demand  the  impassioned  Poet's  care — 
If  MIRTH,  and  softened  SENSE,  and  WIT  refined, 
The  blameless  features  of  a  lovely  mind ; 
Then  haply  shall  my  trembling  hand  assign 
No  fading  wreath  to  BEAUTY'S  saintly  shrine. 
Nor,  SARA  !  thou  these  early  flowers  refuse- 
Ne'er  lurked  the  snake  beneath  their  simple  hues ; 
No  purple  bloom  the  Child  of  Nature  brings 
From  Flattery's  night-shade :  as  he  feels  he  sings. 
September,  1792. 


SONNETS, 
i. 

Content,  as  random  Fancies  might  inspire, 
If  his  weak  harp  at  times  or  lonely  lyre 
He  struck  with  desultory  hand,  and  drew 
Some  softened  tones  to  Nature  not  untrue. 

BOWLES. 

MY  heart  has  thanked  thee,  BOWLES  !  for  those  soft  strains 

Whose  sadness  soothes  me,  like  the  murmuring 

Of  wild-bees  in  the  sunny  showers  of  spring  ! 

For  hence  not  callous  to  the  mourner's  pains 

Through  Youth's  gay  prime  and  thornless  paths  I  went : 

And  when  the  mightier  Throes  of  mind  began, 

And  drove  me  forth,  a  thought-bewildered  man  1 

Their  mild  and  manliest  melancholy  lent 

A  mingled  charm,  such  as  the  pang  consigned 

To  slumber,  though  the  big  tear  it  renewed  ; 

Bidding  a  strange  mysterious  PLEASURE  brood 

Over  the  wavy  and  tumultuous  mind, 

As  the  great  SPIRIT  erst  with  plastic  sweep 

Moved  on  the  darkness  of  the  unformed  deep. 

n. 

As  late  I  lay  in  slumber's  shadowy  vale, 

With  wetted  cheek  and  in  a  mourner's  guise, 

I  saw  the  sainted  form  of  FREEDOM  rise : 

She  spake !  not  sadder  moans  the  autumnal  gale— 

"  Great  Sou  of  Genius !  sweet  to  me  thy  name, 

"Ere  in  an  evil  hour  with  altered  voice 

"  Thou  badst  Oppression's  hireling  crew  rejoice 

"  Blasting  with  wizard  spell  my  laurelled  lame. 

"Yet  never,  BURKE !  thou  drank' st  Corruption's  bowl' 

"  The  stormy  Pity  and  the  cherished  lure 

"  Of  Pomp,  and.  proud  Precipitance  of  soul 

"  Wildered  wi  th  meteor  fires.    Ah  Spirit  pure ! 

"  That  error's  mist  had  left  thy  purged  eye : 

"  So  might  I  clasp  thee  with  a  Mother's  joy !" 


58  JUVENILE  POEMS, 

in. 

THOUGH  roused  by  that  dark  Vizir  RIOT  rude 
Have  driven  our  PRIESTLY  o'er  the  ocean  swell ; 
Though  SUPERSTITION  and  her  wolfish  brood 
Bay  his  mild  radiance,  impotent  and  fell ; 
Calm  in  his  halls  of  Brightness  he  shall  dwell ! 
For  lo !  RELIGION  at  his  strong  behest 
Starts  with  mild  anger  from  the  Papal  spell, 
And  flings  to  Earth  her  tinsel-glittering  vest, 
Her  mitred  state  and  cumbrous  pomp  unholy  j 
And  JUSTICE  wakes  to  bid  the  Oppressor  wail 
Insulting  aye  the  wrongs  of  patient  Folly ; 
And  from  her  dark  retreat  by  Wisdom  won 
Meek  NATURE  slowly  lifts  her  matron  veil 
To  smile  with  fondness  on  her  gazing  son ! 


IV. 

When  British  Freedom  for  an  happier  land 

Spread  her  broad  wings  that  fluttered  with  affright, 

ERSKINE  !  thy  voice  she  heard,  and  paused  her  flight 

Sublime  of  hope !    For  dreadless  thou  didst  stand 

(Thy  censor  glowing  with  the  hallowed  flame) 

An  hireless  Priest  before  the  insulted  shrine, 

And  at  her  altar  pour  the  stream  divine 

Of  unmatched  eloquence.    Therefore  thy  name 

Her  sons  shall  venerate,  and  cheer  thy  breast 

With  blessings  heaven-ward  breathed.  And  when  the  doom 

Of  Nature  bids  thee  die,  beyond  the  tomb 

Thy  light  shall  shine :  as  sunk  beneath  the  West 

Though  the  great  Summer  Sun  eludes  our  gaze, 

Still  burns  wide  Heaven  with  his  distended  blaze. 


v. 

It  was  some  Spirit,  SHERIDAN  !  that  breathed 

O'er  thy  young  mind  such  wildly  various  power ! 

My  soul  hath  marked  thee  in  her  shaping  hour, 

Thy  temples  with  Hymmettian  flow'rets  wreathed  : 

And  sweet  thy  voice,  as  when  o'er  Laura's  bier 

Sad  music  trembled  through  Vauclusa's  glade  ; 

Sweet,  as  at  dawn  the  love-lorn  Serenade 

That  wafts  soft  dreams  to  Slumber's  listening  ear. 

Now  patriot  Rage  and  Indignation  high 

Swell  the  full  tones  I    And  now  thine  eye-beams  dance 

Meanings  of  Scorn  and  Wit's  quaint  revelry ! 

Writhes  inly  from  the  bosom-probing  glance 

The  Apostate  by  the  brainless  rout  adored, 

As  erst  that  elder  Fiend  beneath  great  Michael's  sword. 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  50 

VI. 

O  WHAT  a  loud  and  fearful  shriek  was  there, 

As  though  a  thousand  souls  one  death-groan  poured! 

Ah  me !  they  viewed  beneath  an  hireling's  sword 

Fallen  KOSKIUSKO!    Through  the  burthened  air 

(As  pauses  the  tired  Cossac's  barbarous  yell 

Of  Triumph)  on  the  chill  and  midnight  gale 

Rises  with  frantic  burst  or  sadder  swell 

The  dirge  of  murdered  Hope!  while  Freedom  pale 

Bends  in  such  anguish  o'er  her  destined  bier, 

As  if  from  eldest  time  some  Spirit  meek 

Had  gathered  in  a  mystic  urn  each  tear 

That  ever  on  a  Patriot's  furrowed  cheek 

Fit  channel  found ;  and  she  had  drained  the  bowl 

In  the  mere  wilfulness,  and  sick  despair  of  soul! 


VII. 

As  when  far  off  the  warbled  strains  are  heard 

That  soar  on  Morning's  wing  the  vales  among, 

Within  his  cage  the  imprisoned  matin  bird 

Swells  the  full  chorus  with  a  generous  song : 

He  bathes  no  pinion  in  the  dewy  light, 

No  Father's  joy,  no  Lover's  bliss  he  shares, 

Yet  still  the  rising  radiance  cheers  his  sight ; 

His  Fellows'  freedom  soothes  the  Captive's  cares! 

Thou,  FAYETTE  !  who  didst  wake  with  startling  voice 

Life's  better  sun  from  that  long  wintry  night, 

Thus  in  thy  Country's  triumphs  shalt  rejoice 

And  mock  with  raptures  high  the  dungeon's  might : 

For  lo!  the  morning  struggles  into  day, 

And  Slavery's  spectres  shriek  and  vanish  from  the  ray ! 


VIII. 

THOU  gentle  Look,  that  didst  my  soul  beguile, 

Why  hast  thou  left  me  ?    Still  in  some  fond  dream 

Revisit  my  sad  heart,  auspicious  SMILE  ! 

As  falls  on  closing  flowers  the  lunar  beam : 

What  time,  in  sickly  mood,  at  parting  day 

I  lay  me  down  and  think  of  happier  years  ; 

Of  Joys,  that  glimmered  in  Hope's  twilight  ray, 

Then  left  me  darkling  in  a  vale  of  tears, 

O  pleasant  days  of  Hope — for  ever  gone! 

Could  I  recall  you! — But  that  thought  is  vain : 

Availeth  not  Persuasion's  sweetest  tone 

To  lure  the  fleet- winged  Travellers  back  again: 

Yet  fair,  though  faint,  their  images  shall  gleam 

Like  the  bright  Rainbow  on  a  willowy  stream. 


60  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

IX. 

PALE  Roamer  through  the  Night!  thou  poor  Forlorn ! 

Remorse  that  man  on  his  death -bed  possess, 

Who  in  the  credulous  hour  of  tenderness 

Betrayed,  then  cast  thee  forth  to  "Want  and  Scorn ! 

The  world  is  pitiless :  the  Chaste  one's  pride 

Mimic  of  Virtue  scowls  on  thy  distress : 

Thy  Loves  and  they,  that  envied  thee,  deride : 

And  Vice  alone  will  shelter  Wretchedness! 

Oh !  I  am  sad  to  think,  that  there  should  be 

Cold-bosomed  Lewd  ones,  who  endure  to  place 

Foul  offerings  on  the  shrine  of  Misery, 

And  force  from  FAMINE  the  caress  of  LOVE  ; 

May  He  shed  healing  on  thy  sore  disgrace, 

He,  the  great  COMFORTER  that  rules  above ! 


x. 

SWEET  Mercy!  how  my  very  heart  has  bled 

To  see  thee,  poor  OLD  MAN  !  and  thy  gray  hairs 

Hoar  with  the  snowy  blast :  while  no  one  cares 

To  clothe  thy  shrivelled  limbs  and  palsied  head. 

My  Father!  throw  away  this  tattered  vest 

That  uiocks  thy  shivering!  take  my  garment — use 

A  young-man's  arms !    Til  melt  these  frozen  dews 

That  hang  from  thy  white  beard  and  numb  thy  breast. 

My  SARA  too  shall  tend  thee,  like  a  Child : 

And  thou  shalt  talk,  in  our  fire  side's  recess, 

Of  purple  Pride,  that  scowls  on  Wretchedness. 

He  did  not  so,  the  GALILEE  AN  mild, 

Who  met  the  Lazars  turned  from  rich  man's  doors, 

And  called  them  Friends,  and  healed  their  noisome  Sores ! 


XI. 

THOU  bleedest,  my  poor  HEART  !  and  thy  distress 

Reasoning  I  ponder  with  a  scornful  smile 

And  probe  thy  sore  wound  sternly,  though  the  while 

Swoln  be  mine  eye  and  dim  with  heaviness. 

Why  didst  thou  listen  to  Hope's  whisper  bland  ? 

Or,  listening,  why  forget  the  healing  tale, 

When  Jealousy  with  feverish  fancies  pale 

Jarred  thy  fine  fibres  with  a  maniac's  hand? 

Faint  was  that  HOPE,  and  rayless ! — Yet  'twas  fair 

And  soothed  with  many  a  dream  the  hour  of  rest : 

Thou  should'st  have  loved  it  most,  when  most  opprest, 

And  nursed  it  with  an  agony  of  Care, 

Even  as  a  Mother  her  sweet  infant  heir 

That  wan  and  sickly  droops  upon  her  breast : 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  61 

XII. 
TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  "ROBBERS." 

SCHILLER!  that  hour  I  would  have  wished  to  die, 
If  through  the  shuddering  midnight  I  had  sent 
•From  the  dark  dungeon  of  the  tower  time-rent 
That  Fearful  voice,  a  famished  Father's  cry — 
Lest  in  some  after  moment  aught  more  mean 
Might  stamp  me  mortal !    A  triumphant  shout 
Black  HORROR  screamed,  and  all  her  goblin  rout 
Diminished  shrunk  from  the  more  withering  scene ! 
Ah  Bard  tremendous  in  sublimity ! 
Could  I  behold  thee  in  thy  loftier  mood 
Wandering  at  eve  with  finely  frenzied  eye 
Beneath  some  vast  old  tempest-swinging  wood ! 
Awhile  with  mute  awe  gazing  I  would  brood : 
Then  weep  aloud  in  a  wild  estasy ! 


EPITAPH  ON  AN  INFANT. 

ERE  Sin  could  blight  or  Sorrow  fate, 
Death  came  with  friendly  care  ; 

The  opening  bud  to  Heaven  conveyed 
And  bade  it  blossom  there. 


LINENS 

IX  THE  MANNER  OF  SPENSER. 

0  PEACE,  that  on  a  lilied  bank  dost  love 
To  rest  thine  head  beneath  an  Olive  Tree, 

1  would,  that  from  the  pinions  of  thy  Dove 
One  quill  withouten  pain  yplucked  might  be ! 
For  O !  I  wish  my  SARA'S  frowns  to  flee, 

And  fain  to  her  some  soothing  song  would  write, 
Lest  she  resent  my  rude  discourtesy, 
Who  vowed  to  meet  her  ere  the  morning  light, 
But  broke  my  plighted  word — ah  !  false  and  recreant 
wight ! 

Last  night  as  I  my  weary  head  did  pillow 

With  thoughts  of  my  dissevered  Fair  engrossed, 

Chill  Fancy  drooped  wreathing  herself  with  willow, 

As  though  my  breast  entombed  a  pining  ghost. 

"  From  some  blest  couch,  young  Rapture's  bridal  boast, 


62  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

"  Rejected  SLUMBFR  !  hither  wing  thy  way  ; 

"  But  leave  me  with  the  matiu  hour,  at  most ! 

"  As  night-closed  Floweret  to  the  orient  ray, 

"  My  sad  heart  will  expand,  when  I  the  Maid  survey." 

But  LOVE,  who  heard  the  silence  of  my  thought, 
Contrived  a  too  successful  wile,  I  ween: 
And  whispered  to  himself,  with  malice  fraught — 
"  Too  long  our  Slave  the  Damsel's  smiles  hath  seen : 
"  To-morrow  shall  he  ken  her  altered  mien !" 
He  spake,  and  ambushed  lay,  till  on  my  bed 
The  morning  shot  her  dewy  glances  keen, 
When  as  I  'gan  to  lift  my  drowsy  head — 
"  Now,  Bard !  I'll  work  thee  woe !"  the  laughing  Elfin 
said. 

SLEEP,  softly-breathing  God !  his  downy  wing 
Was  fluttering  now,  as  quickly  to  depart ; 
When  twanged  an  arrow  from  LOVE'S  mystic  string, 
With  pathless  wound  it  pierced  him  to  the  heart. 
Was  there  some  Magic  iu  the  Elfin's  dart! 
Or  did  he  strike  my  couch  with  wizzard  lance  1 
For  straight  so  fair  a  Form  did  upwards  start 
(No  fairer  decked  the  Bowers  of  old  Romance) 
That  SLEEP  enamoured  grew,  nor  moved  from  his 
sweet  Trance ! 

My  SARA  came,  with  gentlest  Look  divine ; 

Bright  shone  her  Eye,  yet  tender  was  its  beam  : 

I  felt  the  pressure  of  her  lip  to  mine! 

Whispering  we  went,  and  Love  was  all  our  theme — 

Love  pure  and  spotless,  as  at  first.  1  deem, 

He  sprang  from  Heaven!   Such  joys  with  Sleep  did 

'bide, 

That  I  the  living  Image  of  my  Dream 
Fondly  forgot.     Too  late  I  woke,  and  sigh'd — 
"  O !  how  shall  I  behold  my  Love  at  even-tide !" 


IMITATED  FROM  OSSIAN. 

THE  stream  with  languid  murmur  creeps, 

In  LUMIN'S  flowery  vale : 
Beneath  the  dew  the  Lily  weeps 

Slow-waving  to  the  gale. 

"  Cease,  restless  gale !  it  seems  to  say, 
" Nor  wake  me  with  thy  sighing! 

"  The  honours  of  my  vernal  day 
"  On  rapid  wing  are  flying. 

"  To-morrow  shall  the  Traveller  come 
"  Who  late  beheld  nie  blooming  : 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  63 

"  His  searching  eye  shall  vainly  roam 
"  The  dreary  vale  of  LUMIN." 

With  eager  gaze  and  wetted  cheek 

My  wonted  haunts  along, 
Thus,  faithful  Maiden !  thoii  shalt  seek 

The  Youth  of  simplest  song. 

But  I  along  the  breeze  shall  roll 

The  voice  of  feeble  power; 
And  dwell,  the  Moon-beam  of  thy  soul, 

In  Slumber's  nightly  hour. 


THE  COMPLAINT  OF  NINATHOMA. 

How  long  will  ye  round  me  be  swelliug, 

O  ye  blue-tumbling  waves  of  the  Sea  ? 
Not  always  in  Caves  was  my  dwelling, 

Nor  beneath  the  cold  blast  of  the  Tree. 
Through  the  high-sounding  halls  of  Cathl6ma 

In  the  steps  of  my  Beauty  I  strayed ; 
The  Warriors  beheld  Ninathdma, 

And  they  blessed  the  white-bosomed  Maid  ! 

A  GHOST  !  by  my  Cavern  it  darted  ! 

In  moon-beams  the  Spirit  was  drest — 
For  lovely  appear  the  DEPARTED 

When  they  visit  the  dreams  of  my  Rest  I 
But  disturbed  by  the  Tempest's  commotion 

Fleet  the  shadowy  forms  of  Delight — 
Ah  cease,  thou  shrill  blast  of  the  Ocean  ! 

To  howl  through  my  Cavern  by  Night. 


TO  AN  INFANT. 

AH  cease  thy  Tears  and  Sobs,  my  little  Life  ! 
I  did  but  snatch  away  the  unclasped  Knife  : 
Some  safer  Toy  will  soon  arrest  thine  eye 
And  to  quick  Laughter  change  this  peevish  cry  ! 
Poor  Stumbler  on  the  rocky  coast  of  Woe, 
Tutored  by  Pain  each  source  of  Pain  to  know ! 
Alike  the  foodful  fruit  and  scorching  fire 
Awake  the  eager  grasp  and  young  desire : 
Alike  the  Good,  the  111  offend  thy  sight, 
And  rouse  the  stormy  Sense  of  shrill  Atf right ! 
Untaught,  yet  wise!  mid  all  thy  brief  alarms 
Thou  closely  clingest  to  thy  Mother's  arms, 
Nestling  thy  little  face  in  that  fond  breast 
Whose  anxious  Heavings  lull  thee  to  thy  rest  I 


64  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

Man's  breathing  Miniature !  them  mak'st  me  sigh — 

A  Babe  art  thou — and  such  a  Thing  am  I ! 

To  anger  rapid  and  as  soon  appeased, 

For  trifles  mourning  and  by  trifles  pleased, 

Break  Friendship's  Mirror  with  a  tetchy  blow, 

Yet  snatch  what  coals  of  fire  on  Pleasure's  altar  glow ! 

O  thou  that  rearest  with  celestial  aim 

The  future  Seraph  in  my  mortal  frame . 

Thrice  holy  FAITH  :  whatever  thorns  1  meet 

As  on  I  totter  with  unpractised  feet, 

Still  let  me  stretch  my  arms  and  cling  to  thee, 

Meek  Nurse  of  Souls  through  their  long  Infancy  ! 


IMITATED  FROM  THE  WELSH. 

IF,  while  my  passion  I  impart, 

You  deem  my  words  untrue, 
O  place  your  hand  upon  my  heart — 

Feel  how  it  throbs  for  you  I 

Ah  no!  reject  the  thoughtless  claim 

In  pity  to  your  Lover ! 
That  thrilling  touch  would  aid  the  flame 

It  wishes  to  discover. 


WRITTEN     AT     SHURTON    BARS,    NEAR     BRIDGE- 
WATER,   SEPTEMBER,   1795, 

IX  ANSWER  TO  A   LETTER    FROM  BRISTOL. 

Good  verse  most  good,  and  bad  verse  then  seems  better 
Received  from  absent  friend  by  way  of  Letter. 
For  what  so  sweet  can  laboured  lays  impart 
As  one  rude  rhyme  warm  from  a  friendly  heart  ? 

ANON. 

NOR  travels  my  meandering  eye 
The  starry  wilderness  on  high ; 

Nor  now  with  curious  sight 
I  mark  the  glow-worm,  as  I  pass, 
Move  with  "  green  radiance" through  the  grass, 

An  EMERALD  of  Light. 

O  ever  present  to  my  view! 
My  wafted  spirit  is  with  you, 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  65.. 

And  soothes  your  boding  fears : 
I  see  you  all  oppressed  with  gloom 
Sit  lonely  in  that  cheerless  room — 

Ah  me !  You  are  in  tears  ! 

Beloved  Woman !  did  yon  fly 

Chilled  Friendship's  dark  disliking  eye, 

Or  Mirth's  untimely  din  ? 
With  cruel  weight  these  trifles  press 
A  temper  sore  with  tenderness, 

When  aches  the  Void  within. 

But  why  with  sable  wand  unblessed 
Should  Fancy  rouse  within  my  breast 

Diru-visaged  shapes  of  Dread  ? 
Untenanting  its  beauteous  clay 
My  SARA'S  soul  has  winged  its  way, 

And  hovers  round  my  head ! 

I  felt  it  prompt  the  tender  Dream, 
When  slowly  sunk  the  day's  last  gleam  j 

You  roused  each  gentler  sense 
As  sighing  o'er  the  Blossom's  bloom 
Meek  Evening  wakes  its  soft  perfume 

With  viewless  influence. 

And  hark,  my  Love !  The  sea-breeze  moans 
Through  yon  reft  house !  O'er  rolling  stones 

In  bold  ambitious  sweep 
The  onward-surging  tides  supply 
The  silence  of  the  cloudless  sky 

With  mimic  thunders  deep. 

Dark  reddening  from  the  channelled  Isle* 
(Where  stands  one  solitary  pile 

Uuslated  by  the  blast) 
The  Watchfire,  like  a  sullen  star 
Twinkles  to  many  a  dozing  Tar 

Rude  cradled  on  the  mast. 

Even  there — beneath  that  lighthouse  tower- 
In  the  tumultuous  evil  hour 

Ere  Peace  with  SARA  came, 
Time  was,  I  should  have  thought  it  sweet 
To  count  the  echoings  of  my  feet, 

And  watch  the  storm-vexed  flame. 

And  there  in  black  soul-jaundiced  fit 
A  sad  gloom-pampered  Man  to  sit, 

*  The  Holmes,  *in  the  Bristol  Channel. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 

And  listen  to  the  roar : 
When  mountain  Surges  bellowing  deep 
With  an  uncouth  monster  leap 

Plunged  foaming  on  the  shore. 

Then  by  the  Lightning's  blaze  to  mark 
Some  toiling  tempest-shattered  bark ; 

Her  vain  distress-guns  hear; 
And  when  a  second  sheet  of  light 
Flashed  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  night — 

To  see  no  Vessel  there  ! 

But  Fancy  now  more  gaily  sings  ; 
Or  if  awhile  she  droop  her  wings, 

As  sky-larks  'mid  the  corn, 
On  summer  fields  she  grounds  her  breast: 
The  oblivious  Poppy  o'er  her  nest 

Nods,  till  returning  morn. 

O  mark  those  smiling  tears,  that  swell 
The  opened  Kose !   From  heaven  they  fell, 

And  with  the  sun-beam  blend. 
Blessed  visitations  from  above, 
Such  are  the  tender  woes  of  Love 

Fostering  the  heart,  they  bend ! 

When  stormy  Midnight  howling  round 
Beats  on  our  roof  with  clattering  sound, 

To  me  your  arms  you'll  stretch : 
Great  God!  you'll  say — To  us  so  kind, 

0  shelter  from  this  loud  bleak  wind 
The  houseless,  friendless  wretch  ! 

The  tears  that  tremble  down  your  cheek, 
Shall  bathe  my  kisses  chaste  and  ineek 

In  Pity's  dew  divine  ; 
And  from  your  heart  the  sighs  that  steal 
Shall  make  your  rising  bosom  feel 

The  answering  swell  of  mine ! 

How  oft,  my  Love !  with  shapings  sweet 

1  paint  the  moment,  we  shall  meet! 

With  eager  speed  I  dart — 
I  seize  you  in  the  vacant  air, 
And  fancy,  with  a  Husband's  care 

I  press  you  to  my  heart ! 

'Tis  said,  on  Summer's  evening  hour 
Flashes  the  golden-coloured  flower 

A  fair  electric  flame : 
And  so  shall  flash  my  love-charged  eye 
When  all  the  heart's  big  ecstacy 

Shoots  rapid  through  the  frame  I 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  07 

LINES 

TO  A    FRIEND  IN   ANSWER  TO  A  MELANCHOLY  LETTER. 

AwAy,  those  cloudy  looks,  th.it  labouring  sigh, 
The  peevish  offspring  of  a  sickly  hour! 
Nor  meanly  thus  complain  of  Fortune's  power, 
When  the  blind  Gamester  throws  a  luckless  die. 

Yon  setting  Sun  flashes  a  mournful  gleam 
Behind  those  broken  clouds,  his  stormy  train  : 
To-morrow  shall  the  many-coloured  main 
In  brightness  roll  beneath  his  orient  beam ! 

Wild,  as  the  autumnal  gust,  the  hand  of  TIME 
Flies  o'er  his  mystic  lyre :  in  shadowy  dance 
The  alternate  groupes  of  Joy  and  Grief  advance 
Responsive  to  his  varying  strains  sublime  ! 

Bears  on  its  wing  each  hour  a  load  of  Fate, 

The  swain,  who,  lulled  by  Seine's  mild  murmurs,  led 

His  weary  oxen  to  their  nightly  shed, 

To-day  may  rule  a  tempest-troubled  State. 

Nor  shall  not  Fortune  with  avengeful  smile 
Survey  the  sanguinary  Despot's  might, 
And  haply  hurl  the  Pageant  from  his  height 
Unwept  to  wander  in  some  savage  isle. 

There  shiv'ring  sad  beneath  the  tempest's  frown 
Round  his  tired  limbs  to  wrap  the  purple  vest; 
And  mixed  with  nails  and  beads,  an  equal  jest! 
Barter  for  food,  the  jewels  of  his  crown. 


RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS. 

A  DESULTORY  POEM,   WRITTEN  ON  THE   CHRISTMAS   EVE  Olf 
1794. 

THIS  is  the  time,  when  most  divine  to  hear, 

The  voice  of  Adoration  rouses  me, 

As  with  a  Cherub's  trump  :  and  high  upborne, 

Yea,  mingling  with  the  Choir,  I  seem  to  view 

The  vision  of  the  heavenly  multitude, 

Who  hymned  the  song  of  Peace  o'er  Bethlehem's  fields ! 

Yet  thou  more  bright  than  all  the  Angel  blaze, 

That  harbingered  thy  birth,  Thou,  Man  of  Woes! 

Despised  Galilean !  For  the  GREAT 

INVISIBLE  (by  symbols  only  seen) 

With  a  peculiar  and  surpassing  light 

Shines  from  the  visage  of  the  oppressed  good  Man, 

When  heedless  of  himself  the  scourged  Saint 

Mourns  for  the  Oppressor.     Fair  the  vernal  Mead, 


63  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

Fair  the  high  Grove,  the  Sea,  the  Sun,  the  Stars ; 

True  Impress  each  of  their  creating  Sire! 

Yet  nor  high  Grove,  nor  many-coloured  Mead, 

Nor  the  green  Ocean  with  his  thousand  Isles, 

Nor  the  starred  Azure,  nor  the  sovran  Sun, 

E'er  with  such  majesty  of  portraiture 

Imaged  the  supreme  beauty  uncreate, 

As  thou,  meek  Saviour!  at  the  fearful  hour 

When  thy  insulted  Anguish  winged  the  prayer 

Harped  by  Archangels,  when  they  sing  of  mercy ! 

Which  when  the  ALMIGHTY  heard  from  forth  his  Throne, 

Diviner  light  filled  Heaven  with  ecstacy  ! 

Heaven's  hymnings  paused:  and  Hell  heryawnlng  mouth 

Closed  a  brief  moment. 

Lovely  was  the  Death 

Of  Him  whose  Life  was  Love !  Holy  with  power 
He  on  the  thought-benighted  Sceptic  beamed 
Manifest  Godhead,  melting  into  day 
What  floating  mists  of  dark  Idolatry 

And  first  by  FEAR  uncharmed  the  droused  Soul.* 
Till  of  its  nobler  Nature  it 'gan  feel 
Dim  recollections ;  and  thence  soared  to  HOPE, 
Strong  to  believe  whate'er  of  mystic  good 
The  Eternal  dooms  for  his  immortal  Sons. 
From  HOPE  and  firmer  FAITH  to  perfect  LOVB 
Attracted  and  absorbed :  and  centered  there 
GOD  only  to  behold,  and  know,  and  feel, 
Till  by  exclusive  Consciousness  of  God 
All  self-annihilated  it  shall  make 
GOD  its  Identity  :  God  all  in  all ! 
We  and  our  Father  ONE  ! 

And  blessed  are  they, 

Who  in  this  fleshly  World,  the  elect  of  Heaven, 
Their  strong  eye  darting  through  the  deeds  of  Men, 
Adore  with  steadfast  unpresuming  gaze 
Him  Nature's  Essence,  Mind,  and  Energy ! 
And  gazing,  trembling,  patiently  ascend 
Treading  beneath  their  feet  all  visible  things 
As  steps,  that  upward  to  their  Father's  Throne 
"   Lead  gradual — else  nor  glorified  nor  loved. 
THEY  nor  Contempt  embosom  nor  Revenge: 
For  THEY  dare  know  of  what  may  seem  deform 
The  SUPREME  FAIR  sole  Operant :  in  whose  sight 
All  things  are  pure,  his  strong  controlling  Love 
Alike  from  all  educing  perfect  good. 
Theirs  too  celestial  courage,  inly  armed — 

*  To  NofjToi'  fiiijpTjKcunf  ei?  TroAAwi/ 

aeon-  ifitoTijras.       DAMAS  I>E  MYST. 


\ 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  69 

Dwarfing  Earth's  giant  brood,  what  time  they  muse 
On  their  great  Father,  great  beyond  compare ! 
And  marching  onwards  view  high  o'er  their  heads 
His  waving  Banners  of  Omnipotence. 

Who  the  Creator  Love,  created  might 

Dread  not :  within  their  tents  no  Terrors  walk. 

For  they  are  Holy  Things  before  the  Lord 

Aye  unprofaned,  though  Earth  should  league  with  Hell ; 

GOD'S  Altar  grasping  with  an  eager  hand 

FEAR,  the  wild-visaged,  pale,  eye-starting  wretch, 

Sure-refuged  hears  his  hot  pursuing  fiends 

Yell  at  vain  distance.     Soon  refreshed  from  Heaven 

He  calms  the  throb  and  tempest  of  his  heart. 

His  countenance  settles:  a  soft  solemn  bliss 

Swims  in  his  eye— his  swimming  eye  upraised  : 

And  Faith's  whole  armour  glitters  on  his  limbs ! 

And  thus  transfigured  with  a  dreadless  awe, 

A  solemn  hush  of  soul,  meek  he  beholds 

All  things  of  terrible  seeming:  yea,  unmoved 

Views  e'en  the  immitigable  ministers 

That  shower  down  vengeance  on  these  latter  days. 

For  kindling  with  intenser  Deity 

From  the  celestial  MERCY-SEAT  they  come, 

And  at  the  renovating  Wells  of  LOVE 

Have  filled  their  Vials  with  salutary  Wrath, 

To  sickly  Nature  more  medicinal 

Than  what  soft  balm  the  weeping  good  man  pours 

Into  the  lone  despoiled  traveller's  wounds  1 

Thus  from  the  Elect,  regenerate  through  faith, 

Pass  the  dark  Passions  and  what  thirsty  Cares 

Drink  up  the  spirit  and  the  dim  regards 

Self-centre.    Lo  they  vanish !  or  acquire 

New  names,  new  features — by  supernal  grace 

Enrobed  with  Light,  and  naturalized  in  Heaven. 

As  when  a  Shepherd  on  a  vernal  morn 

Through  some  thick  fog  creeps  timorous  with  slow  foot, 

Darkling  he  fixes  on  the  immediate  road 

His  downward  eye  :  all  else  of  fairest  kind 

Hid  or  deformed.    But  lo !  the  bursting  Sun ! 

Touched  by  the  enchantment  of  that  sudden  beam 

Straight  the  black  vapour  melteth,  and  in  globes 

Of  dewy  glitter  gems  each  plant  and  tree  j 

On  every  leaf,  on  every  blade  it  hangs! 

Dance  glad  the  new-born  intermingling  rays, 

And  wide  around  the  landscape  streams  with  glory  !. 

There  is  one  Mind,  one  omnipresent  Mind, 
Omnific.     His  most  holy  name  is  LOVE. 
Truth  of  subliming  import  1  with  the  which 
Who  feeds  and  saturates  his  constant  soul, 


70  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

He  from  his  small  particular  orbit  flies 

With  blessed  outstarting !  From  HIMSELF  he  flies, 

Stands  in  the  Sun,  and  with  no  partial  gaze 

Views  all  creation ;  and  he  loves  it  all, 

And  blesses  it,  and  calls  it  very  good ! 

This  is  indeed  to  dwell  with  the  most  High ! 

Cherubs  and  rapture-trembling  Seraphim 

Can  press  no  nearer  to  the  Almighty's  Throne. 

But  that  we  roain  unconscious,  or  with  hearts 

Unfeeling  of  our  universal  Sire, 

And  that  in  his  vast  family  no  Cain 

Injuries  uninjured  (in  her  best-aimed  blow 

Victorious  MURDER  a  blind  Suicide) 

Haply  for  this  some  younger  Angel  now 

Looks  down  on  Human  Nature  :  and,  behold  ! 

A  sea  of  blood  bestrewed  with  wrecks,  where  mad 

Embattling  INTERESTS  on  each  other  rush 

With  unhelmed  Rage ! 

;Tis  the  sublime  of  man, 
Our  noon-tide  Majesty,  to  know  ourselves 
Parts  and  proportions  of  one  wonderous  whole ! 
This  fraternizes  man,  this  constitutes 
Our  charities  and  bearings.    But  'tis  God 
Diffused  through  all,  that  doth  make  all  one  whole  ; 
This  the  worst  superstition,  hiin  except 
Aught  to  desire,  SUPREME  KEALITY! 
The  plenitude  and  permanence  of  bliss? 

0  Fiends  of  SUPERSTITION!  not  that  oft 

The  erring  Priest  hath  stained  with  Brother's  blood 
Your  grisly  idols,  not  for  this  may  Wrath 
Thunder  against  you  from  the  Holy  One ! 
But  o'er  some  plain  that  steameth  to  the  Sun, 
Peopled  with  Death ;  or  where  more  hideous  TRADE 
Loud-laughing  packs  his  bales  of  human  anguish  ; 

1  will  rise  up  a  mourning,  O  ye  Fiends ! 

And  curse  your  spells,  that  film  the  eye  of  Faith, 
Hiding  the  present  God ;  whoso  presence  lost, 
The  moral  world's  cohesion,  we  become 
An  Anarchy  of  Spirits !  Toy-bewitched, 
Made  blind  by  lusts,  disherited  of  soul, 
No  common  centre  Man,  no  common  sire 
Knoweth  !     A  sordid  solitary  thing, 
Mid  countless  brethren  with  a  lonely  heart 
Through  courts  and  cities  the  smooth  Savage  roams 
Feeling  himself,  his  own  low  Self  the  whole  ; 
„    When  he  by  sacred  sympathy  might  make 

The  whole  ONE  SELF!  SELF,  that  no  alien  knows! 
SELF,  far  diffused  as  Fancy's  wing  can  travel ! 
SELF,  spreading  still !    Oblivious  of  its  own. 
Yet  all  of  all  possessing !    This  is  FAITH  ! 
Thia  the  MESSIAH'S  destined  victory ! 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  71 

But  first  offences  needs  must  come!    Even  now* 

(Black  Hell  laughs  horrible— to  hear  the  scoff!) 

THEE  to  defend,  meek  Galiloean!  THEE 

And  thy  mild  laws  of  Love  unutterable, 

Mistrust  and  Enmity  have  burst  the  bands 

Of  social  Peace ;  and  listening  Treachery  lurlja 

With  pious  fraud  to  snare  a  brother's  life ; 

And  childless  widows  o'er  the  groaning  land 

Wail  numberless ;  and  orphans  weep  for  bread ! 

THEE  to  defend,  dear  Saviour  of  Mankind! 

THEE,  Lamb  of  God !  THEE,  blameless  Prince  of  Peace ! 

From  all  sides  rush  the  thirsty  brood  of  War? 

AUSTRIA,  and  that  foul  WOMAN  of  the  NORTH, 

The  lustful  Murderess  of  her  wedded  Lord! 

And  he,  connatural  Mind !  whom  (in  their  songs 

So  bards  of  elder  time  had  haply  feigned) 

Some  Fury  fondled  in  her  hate  to  man, 

Bidding  her  serpent  hair  in  mazy  surge 

Lick  his  young  face,  and  at  his  mouth  inbreathe 

Horrible  sympathy !  And  leagued  with  these 

Each  petty  German  princeling,  nursed  in  gore ! 

Soul-hardened  barterers  of  human  blood! 

Death's  prime  Slave-merchants!    Scorpion- whips    of 

Fate! 

Nor  least  in  savagery  of  holy  zeal, 
Apt  for  the  yoke,  the  race  degenerate, 
Whom  Britain  erst  had  blushed  to  call  her  sons! 
THEE  to  defend  the  Moloch  Priest  prefers 
The  prayer  of  hate,  and  bellows  to  the  herd 
That  Deity,'  ACCOMPLICE  Deity 
In  the  fierce  jealousy  of  wakened  wrath 
Will  go  forth  with  our  armies  and  our  fleets 
To  scatter  the  red  ruin  on  their  foes! 
O  blasphemy!  to  mingle  fiendish  deeds 
With  blessedness! 

Lord  of  unsleeping  Love,t 

*  January  21st,  1794,  in  the  debate  on  the  Address  to  his  Majesty, 
on  the  speech  from  the  Throne,  the  Earl  of  Guildford  moved  an 
Amendment  to  the  following  effect:  "That  the  House  hoped  his 
Majesty  would  seize  the  earliest  opportunity  to  conclude  a  peace 
with  France,  &c."  This  motion  was  opposed  by  the  Duke  of  Port- 
land, who  "considered  the  war  to  be  merely  grounded  on  one  prin- 
ciple— the  preservation  of  the  CHRISTIAN  RELIGION."  May  iiOth, 
1794,  the  Duke  of  Bedford  moved  a  number  of  Resolutions,  with  a 
view  to  the  Establishment  of  a  Peace  with  France.  He  was  opposed 
(among  others)  by  Lord  Abingdon  in  these  remarkable  Avords: 
"The  best  road  to  Peace,  my  Lords,  is  WAR!  and  WAR  carried  on 
in  the  same  manner  in  which  we  are  taught  to  worship  our  CREATOR, 
namely,  with  all  our  souls,  and  with  all  our  minds,  and  with  all  our 
hearts,  and  with  all  our  strength." 

t  Art  thpu  not  from  everlasting,  O  Lord,  mine  Holy  One?  We 
shall  not  die,  O  Lord,  thou  hast  ordained  them  for  Judgment,  &c.— 
Habakkuk. 


72  JUVENILE   POEMS. 

From  everlasting  Thou!    We  shall  not  die. 
These,  even  these,  in  mercy  didst  thou  form, 
Teachers  of  God  through  Evil,  by  hrief  wrong 
Making  Truth  lovely,  and  her  future  might 
Magnetic  o'er  the  fixed  untremhling  heart. 

In  the  primeval  age  a  dateless  while 

The  vacant  Shepherd  wandered  with  his  flock 

Pitching  his  tent  where'er  the  green  grass  waved. 

But  soon  Imagination  conjured  up 

An  host  of  new  desires:  with  busy  aim, 

Each  for  himself,  Earth's  eager  children  toiled. 

So  PROPERTY  began,  twy-streaming  fount, 

Whence  Vice  and  Virtue  flow,  honey  and  gall. 

Hence  the  soft  couch,  and  many-coloured  robe, 

The  timbrel,  and  arched  dome  and  costly  feast, 

With  all  the  inventive  arts,  that  nursed  the  soul 

To  forms  of  beauty,  and  by  sensual  wants 

Unsensualized  the  mind,  which  in  the  means 

Learnt  to  forget  the  grossness  of  the  end, 

Best  pleasured  with  its  own  activity. 

And  hence  Disease  that  withers  manhood's  arm. 

The  daggered  Envy,  spirit  quenching  Want, 

Warriors,  and  Lords,  and  Priests — all  the  sore  ilia 

That  vex  and  desolate  our  mortal  life. 

Wide-wasting  ills!  yet  each  the  immediate  source 

Of  mightier  good.    Their  keen  necessities 

To  ceaseless  action  goading  human  thought 

Have  made  Earth's  reasoning  animal  her  Lord; 

And  the  pale-featured  Sage's  trembling  hand 

Strong  as  an  host  of  armed  Deities, 

Such  as  the  blind  Ionian  fabled  erst. 

From  Avarice  thus,  from  Luxury  and  War 

Sprang  heavenly  Science;  and  frflfn  Science  Freedom. 

O'er  wakened  realms  Philosophers  and  Bards 

Spread  in  concentric  circles:  they  whose  souls, 

Conscious  of  their  high  dignities  from  God, 

Brook  not  Wealth's  rivalry!  and  they  who  long 

Enamoured  with  the  charms  of  order  hate 

The  unseemly  disproportion :  and  whoe'er 

Turn  with  mild  sorrow  from  the  victor's  car 

And  the  low  puppetry  of  thrones,  to  muso 

On  that  blest  triumph,  when  the  PATRIOT  SAGE 

Called  the  red  lightnings  from  the  o'er-rushing  cloud 

And  dashed  the  beauteous  Terrors  on  the  earth 

Smiling  majestic.     Such  a  phalanx  ne'er 

Measured  firm  paces  to  the  calming  sound 

Of  Spartan  flute !    These  on  the  fated  day, 

When,  stung  to  rage  by  Pity,  eloquent  men 

Have  roused  with  pealing  voice  the  unnumbered  tribes 

That  toil  and  groan  and  bleed,  hungry  aud  blind. 


O)I.ER1I>GK 


It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat. 

The  Ancient  Mariner,  page  3. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


73 


These  hushed  awhile  with  patient  eye  serene 

Shall  watch  the  mad  careering  of  the  storm ; 

Then  o'er  the  wild  and  wavy  chaos  rush 

And  tame  the  outrageous  mass,  with  plastic  might 

Moulding  Confusion  to  such  perfect  forms, 

As  erst  were  wont,  bright  visions  of  the  day! 

To  float  before  them,  when,  the  Summer  noon 

Beneath  some  arched  romantic  rock  reclined 

They  felt  the  sea  breeze  lift  their  youthful  locks ; 

Or  in  the  month  of  blossoms,  at  mild  eve, 

Wandering  with  desultory  feet  inhaled 

Tho  wafted  perfumes,  and  the  flocks  and  woods 

And  many-tinted  streams  and  setting  Sun 

With  all  his  gorgeous  company  of  clouds 

Ecstatic  gazed!  then  homeward  as  they  strayed 

Cast  the  sad  eye  to  earth,  and  inly  mused 

Why  there  was  Misery  in  a  world  so  fair. 

Ah  far  removed  from  all  that  glads  the  sense, 

From  all  that  softens  or  ennobles  Man, 

The  wretched  Many!     Bent  beneath  their  loads 

They  gape  at  pageant  Power,  nor  recognise 

Their  cots'  transmuted  plunder!     From  the  tree 

Of  Knowledge,  ere  the  vernal  sap  had  risen 

Rudely  disbranched !     Blessed  Society ! 

Fitliest  depictured  by  some  sun-scorched  waste, 

Where  oft  majestic  through  the  tainted  noon 

The  SIMOOM  sails,  before  whose  purple  pomp 

Who  falls  not  prostrate  dies !    And  where,  by  night, 

Fast  by  each  precious  fountain  on  green  herbs 

The  lion  couches ;  or  hya3iia  dips 

Deep  in  the  lucid  stream  his  bloody  jaws ; 

Or  serpent  plants  his  vast  moon  glittering  bulk, 

Caught  in  whose  monstrous  twine  Behemoth*  yells, 

His  bones  loud-crashing ! 

O  ye  numberless, 

Whom  foul  Oppression's  ruffian  gluttony 
Drives  from  life's  plenteous  feast !     O  thou  poor  Wretch 
Who  nursed  in  darkness  and  made  wild  by  want 
Eoamest  for  prey,  yea  thy  unnatural  hand 
Dost  lift  to  deeds  of  blood !     O  pale-eyed  Form, 
Tho  victim  of  seduction,  doomed  to  know 
Polluted  nights  and  days  of  blasphemy  ; 
Who  in  loathed  orgies  with  lewd  wassailers 
Must  gaily  laugh,  while  thy  remembered  Home 
Gnaws  like  a  viper  at  thy  secret  heart  I 
O  .iged  Women !  ye  who  weekly  catch 
The  morsel  tossed  by  law-forced  Charity, 

*  Behemoth,  in  Hebrew,  signifies  wild  beasts  in  general.    Some 
believe  it  is  the  elephant,  some  the  hippopotamus;  some  affirm  it  is 
the  wild  bull.    Poetically,  it  designates  any  large  quadruped. 
D 


r 


74  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

And  die  so  slowly,  that  none  call  it  murder! 
O  loathly  Suppliants!  ye,  that  unreceived 
Totter  heart-broken  from  the  closing  gates 
Of  the  full  Lazar-house ;  or,  gazing,  stand 
Sick  with  despair!    O  ye  to  Glory's  field 
Forced  or  ensnared,  who,  as  ye  gasp  in  death, 
Bleed  with  new  wounds  beneath  the  Vulture's  beak  ! 
O  thou  poor  Widow,  who  in  dreams  dost  view 
Thy  Husband's  mangled  corse,  and  from  short  doze 
Start'st  with  a  shriek :  or  in  thy  half-thatched  cot 
Waked  by  the  wintry  night-storm,  wet  and  cold, 
Cow'rst  o'er  thy  screaming  baby  !    Rest  awhile, 
Children  of  Wretchedness !    More  groans  must  rise, 
More  blood  must  stream,  or  ere  your  wrongs  be  full. 
Yet  is  the  day  of  Retribution  nigh  : 
The  Lamb  of  God  hath  opened  the  fifth  seal : 
And  upward  rush  on  swiftest  wing  of  fire 
The  innumerable  multitude  of  Wrongs 
By  man  on  man  inflicted !    Rest  awhile, 
Children  of  Wretchedness !    The  hour  is  nigh  ; 
And  lo  1  the  Great,  the  Rich,  the  Mighty  Men, 
The  Kings  and  the  Chief  Captains  of  the  World, 
With  all  that  fixed  on  high  like  stars  of  Heaven 
Shot  baleful  influence,  shall  be  cast  to  earth, 
Vile  and  down-trodden,  as  the  untimely  fruit 
Shook  from  the  fig-tree  by  a  sudlen  storm. 
Even  now  the  storm  begins  :*  ea"h  gentle  name, 
Faith  and  meek  Piety,  with  fearful  joy 
Tremble  far-off— for  lo !  the  Giant  FRENZY 
Uprooting  empires  with  his  whirlwind  arm 
Mocketh  high  Heaven;  burst  hideous  from  the  cell 
Where  the  old  Hag,  unconquerable,  huge, 
Creation's  eyeless  drudge,  black  RUIN,  sits 
Nursing  the  impatient  earthquake. 

O  return ! 

Pure  FAITH!  meek TIETY  !    The  abhorred  Form 
Whose  scarlet  robe  was  stiff  with  oarthly  pomp, 
Who  drank  iniquity  in  cups  of  Gold, 
Whose  names  were  many  and  all  blasphemous, 
Hath  met  the  horrible  judgment !     Whence  that  cry  T 
The  mighty  army  of  foul  Spirits  shrieked 
Disherited  of  earth !    For  she  hath  fallen 
On  wliose  black  front  was  written  MYSTERY  ; 
She  that  reeled  heavily,  whose  wine  was  blood  ; 
She  that  worked  whoredom  with  the  DAEMON  POWER 
And  from  the  dark  embrace  all  evil  things 
Brought  forth  and  nurtured :  mitred  ATHEISM  ; 
And  patient  FOLLY  who  on  bended  knee 

*  Alluding  to  the  French  Revolution. 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


75 


Gives  back  the  steel  that  stabbed  him ;  and  pale  FEAR 

Hunted  by  ghastlier  shapings  than  surround 

Moon-blasted  Madness  when  he  yells  at  midnight ! 

Return  pure  FAITH  !  return  meek  PIETY 

The  kingdoms  of  the  world  are  yours :  each  heart 

Self- governed,  the  vast  family  of  Love 

Raised  from  the  common  earth  by  common  toil 

Enjoy  the  equal  produce.    Such  delights 

As  lloat  to  earth,  permitted  visitants ! 

When  in  some  hour  of  solemn  jubilee 

The  massy  gates  of  Paradise  are  thrown 

Wide  open,  and  forth  come  in  fragments  wild 

Sweet  echos  of  unearthly  melodies, 

And  odours  snatched  from  beds  of  Amaranth, 

And  they,  that  from  the  crystal  river  of  life 

Spring  lip  on  freshened  wing,  ambrosial  gales ! 

The  favoured  good  man  in  his  lonely  walk 

Perceives  them,  and  bis  silent  spirit  drinks 

Strange  bliss  which  he  shall  recognise  in  heaven. 

And  such  delights,  such  strange  beatitude 

Seize  on  my  young  anticipating  heart 

When  that  blest  future  rushes  on  my  view ! 

For  in  his  own  and  in  his  Father's  might 

The  SAVIOUR  comes !    While  as  the  THOUSAND  YEARS 

Lead  up  their  mystic  dance,  the  DESERT  shouts  ! 

Old  OCEAN  claps  his  hands !    The  mighty  Dead 

Rise  to  new  life,  whoe'er  from  earliest  time 

With  conscious  zeal  had  urged  Love's  wondrous  plan, 

Coadjutors  of  God.    To  MILTON'S  trump 

The  high  Groves  of  the  renovated  Earth 

Unbosom  their  glad  echoes  :  inly  hushed, 

Adoring  NEWTON  his  serener  eye 

Raises  to  heaven :  and  he  of  mortal  kind 

Wisest,  he"  first  who  marked  the  ideal  tribes 

Up  the  fine  fibres  through  the  sentient  brain. 

Lo !  PRIESTLEY  there,  Patriot,  and  Saint,  and  Sage, 

Him,  full  of  years,  from  his  loved  native  land 

Statesmen  blood-stained  and  Priests  idolatrous 

By  dark  lies  maddening  the  blind  multitude 

Drove  with  vain  hate.    Calm,  pitying  he  retired, 

And  mused  expectant  on  these  promised  years 

O  Years !  the  blest  preeminence  of  Saints  ! 
Ye  sweep  athwart  my  gaze,  so  heavenly-bright, 
The  wings  that  veil  the  adoring  Seraph's  eyes, 
What  time  he  bends  before  the  Jasper  Throne  t 
Reflect  no  lovelier  hues !  yet  ye  depart, 

*  David  Hartley. 

t  Rev.  chap,  iv.,  v.  2,  and  3 :— And  immediately  I  was  in  the 
Spirit :  and  behold,  a  Throne,  was  set  in  Heaven,  and  one  sat  on  the 
Throne.  And  he  that  sat  was  to  look  upon  like  a  jasper  and  sardine 
stone,  &c. 


76  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

And  all  beyond  is  darkness!     Heights  most  strange, 
Whence  Fancy  falls,  fluttering  her  idle  wing. 
For  who  of  woman  born  may  paint  the  hour, 
When  seized  in  his  mid  course,  the  Sun  shall  wane, 
Making  noon  ghastly!     Who  of  woman  born 
May  image  in  the  workings  of  his  thought, 
How  the  black-visaged,  red-eyed  Fiend  outstretched* 
Beneath  the  unsteady  feet  of  Nature  groans, 
In  feverish  slumbers — destined  then  to  wake, 
When  fiery  whirlwinds  thunder  his  dread  name 
And  Angels  shout,  DESTRUCTION  !     How  his  arm 
The  last  great  Spirit  lifting  high  in  air 
Shall  swear  by  Him,  the  ever-living  ONE, 
TIME  is  NO  MORE  ! 

Believe  thou,  O  my  soul, 
Life  is  a  vision  shadowy  of  Truth  ; 
And  vice,  and  anguish,  and  the  wormy  grave, 
Shapes  of  a  dream !    The  veiling  clouds  retire, 
And  lo!  the  Throne  of  the  redeeming  God 
Forth  flashing  unimaginable  day 
Wraps  in  one  blaze  earth,  heaven,  and  deepest  hell. 

Conteinplant  Spirits !  ye  that  hover  o'er 

With  uutired  gaze  the  immeasurable  fount 

Ebullient  with  creative  Deity  ! 

And  ye  of  plastic  power,  that  interfused 

Roll  through  the  grosser  and  material  mass 

In  organizing  surge !    Holies  of  God ! 

(Anowhat  if  Monads  of  the  infinite  mind) 

I  haply  journeying  my  immortal  course 

Shall  sometime  join  your  mystic  choir  f    Till  then 

I  discipline  iny  young  noviciate  thought 

In  ministeries  of  heart-stirring  song, 

And  aye  on  Meditation's  heavenward  wing 

Soaring  aloft  I  breathe  the  empyreal  air 

Of  LOVE,  omuific,  omnipresent  LOVE, 

Whose  day -spring  rises  glorious  in  my  soul 

As  the  great  Sun,  when  he  his  influence 

Sheds  on  the  frost-bound  waters — The  glad  stream 

Flows  to  the  ray  and  warbles  as  it  flows. 

*  The  final  Destruction  impersonated. 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  77 

THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 

A  VISION. 

AUSPICIOUS  REVERENCE  !    Hush  all  meaner  song, 

Ere  we  tho  deep  preluding  strain  Lave  poured 

To  the  GREAT  FATHER,  only  RIGHTFUL  KING, 

ETERNAL  FATHER  !    KING  OMNIPOTENT  ! 

THE  WILL,  THE  WORD,  THE  BREATH,— THE  LIVING  GOD. 

Such  symphony  requires  best  instrument. 
Seize,  then,  my  soul!  from  Freedom's  trophied  dome 
The  Harp  which  hangeth  high  between  the  Shields 
Of  Brutus  and  Leonidas !    With  that 
Strong  music,  that  soliciting  spell,  force  back 
Earth's  free  arid  stirring  spirit  that  lies  entranced. 

For  what  is  Freedom,  but  the  unfettered  use 
Of  all  the  powers  which  God  for  use  had  given  t 
But  chiefly  this,  him  First,  him  Last  to  view 
Through  meaner  powers  and  secondary  things 
Effulgent,  as  through  clouds  that  veil  his  blaze. 
For  all  that  meets  the  bodily  sense  I  deem 
Symbolical,  one  mighty  alphabet 
For  infant  minds  ;  and  we  in  this  low  world 
Placed  with  our  backs  to  bright  Reality, 
That  we  may  learn  with  young  unwouuded  keu 
The  substance  from  its  shadow.     Infinite  Love 
Whose  latence  is  the  plenitude  of  All, 
Thou  with  retracted  Beams,  and  Self-eclipse  m 

Veiling,  revealest  thine  eternal  Sun. 

But  some  there  are  who  deem  themselves  most  free 
When  they  within  this  gross  and  visible  sphere 
Chain  down  the  winged  thought,  scoffing  ascent, 
Proud  iu  their  meanness:  and  themselves  they  cheat 
With  noisy  emptiness  of  learned  phrase, 
Their  subtle  fluids,  impacts,  essences,* 
Self-working  tools,  uncaused  effects,  and  all 
Those  blind  Omniscients,  those  Almighty  Slaves, 
Unteuautiug  creation  of  its  God. 

But  properties  are  God :  tho  naked  mass 
Clf  mass  there  be,  fantastic  Guess  or  Ghost) 
Acts  only  by  its  inactivity. 
Here  we  pause  humbly.    Others  boldlier  think 
That  as  one  body  seems  the  aggregate 
Of  Atoms  numberless,  each  organized ; 
So  by  a  strange  and  dim  similitude 
Infinite  myriads  of  self-conscious  minds 
Are  one  all-conscious  Spirit,  which  informs 
With  absolute  ubiquity  of  thought 


78  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

(His  one  eternal  self-affirming  Act !) 
All  Lis  involved  Monads,  that  yet  seem 
With  various  province  and  apt  agency  , 

Each  to  pursue  its  own  self-centering  end. 
Some  nurse  the  infant  diamond  in  the  mine ; 
Some  roll  the  genial  juices  through  the  oak; 
Some  drive  the  mutinous  clouds  to  clash  in  air, 
And  rushing  on  the  storm  with  whirlwind  speed, 
Yoke  the  red  lightning  to  their  volleying  car. 
Thus  these  pursue  their  never-varying  course, 
No  eddy  in  their  stream.  Others,  more  wild, 
With  complex  interests  weaving  human  fates, 
Duteous  or  proud,  alike  obedient  all, 
Evolve  the  process  of  eternal  good. 

And  what  if  some  rebellious,  o'er  dark  realms 
Arrogate  power  ?  yet  these  train  up  to  God, 
And  on  the  rude  eye,  unconfirmed  for  day, 
Flash  meteor-lights  better  than  total  gloom. 
As  ere  from  Lieule-Oaive's  vapoury  head 
The  Laplander  beholds  the  far-off  Sun 
Dart  his  slant  beam  on  unobeying  snows, 
While  yet  the  stern  and  solitary  Night 
Brooks  no  alternate  sway,  the  Boreal  Morn 
With  mimic  lustre  substitutes  its  gleam, 
Guiding  his  course  or  byNierai  lake 
Or  Balda-Zhiok,*  or  the  mossy  stone 
Of  Solfar-kapper.t  while  the  snowy  blast 
Drifts  arrowy  by,  or  eddies  round  his  sledge, 
Making  the  poor  babe  at  its  mother's  backt 
Scream  in  its  scanty  cradle:  he  the  while 
Wins  gentle  solace  as  with  upward  eye 
He  marks  the  streamy  banners  of  the  North, 
Thinking  himself  those  happy  spirits  shall  join 
Who  there  in  floating  robes  of  rosy  light 
Dance  sportively.    For  Fancy  is  the  Power 

*  Balda  Zhiok ;  i.  e.  mons  altitudinis,  the  highest  mountain  in 
Lapland. 

t  Solfar  Kapper;  capitium  Solfar,  hie  locus  omnium,  quotquot 
veterum  Lapponum  superstitio  sacrificiis  religiosoque  cultui  dedi- 
cavit,  celebratissimus  erat,  in  parte  sinus  australis  situs,  semi- 
milliaris  spatio  a  mari  distans.  Ipse  locus,  quemcuriositatis  gratia 
aliquando  me  invisisse  memini.  duabus  prealtis  lapidibus,  sibi 
invicem  oppositis,  quorum  alter  musco  circumdatus  erat,  con- 
stabat. — LEEMIUS  De  Lapponilus. 

\  The  Lapland  women  carry  tbeir  infants  at  their  back  in  a  piece 
of  excavated  wood,  which  serves  them  for  a  cradle.  Opposite  to 
the  infant's  mouth  there  is  a  hole  for  it  to  breathe  through.— Miran- 
dum  prorsus  est  et  vix  credibile  nisi  cui  vidisset  contigit.  Lappones 
hyeme  iter  facientes  per  vastos  montes,  perque  horrida  et  invia 
tssqua,  ep  presertim  tempore  quo  omnia  perpetuis  nivibus  obtecta 
sunt  et  nives  ventis  agitantur  et  in  gyros  aguntnr,  viam  ad  destinata 
loca  absque  errore  invenire  posse,  lactantem  autem  infantem,  si 
quern  habeat.  ipsa  mater  in  dorso  bajulat,  in  excavato  ligno 
(Gi>ed'k  ipsi  vocant)  quod  pro  cunis  utunt.ur:  in  hoc  infans  pannis  et 
pelJibus  convolutus  colligatus  jacet.—  LEEMIUS  De  Lapponibus. 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  79 

That  first  unsensualizes  the  dark  mind, 

Giving  it  new  delights ;  and  bids  it  swell 

With  wild  activity  ;  and  peopling  air, 

By  obscure  fears  of  Beings  invisible, 

Emancipates  it  from  the  grosser  thrall 

Of  the  present  impulse,  teaching  Self-controul, 

Till  Superstition  with  unconscious  hand 

Seat  Reason  on  her  throne.    Wherefore  not  vain, 

Nor  yet  without  permitted  power  impressed, 

I  deem  those  legends  terrible,  with  which 

The  polar  ancient  thrills  his  uncouth  throng: 

Whether  of  pitying  Spirits  that  make  their  moan 

O'er  slaughtered  infants,  or  that  Giant  Bird 

VUOKHO,  of  whose  rushing  wings  the  noise 

Is  Tempest,  when  the  unutterable*  shape 

Speeds  from  the  mother  of  Death,  and  utters  once 

That  shriek,  which  never  Murderer  heard,  and  lived. 

Or  if  the  Greenland  Wizard  in  strange  trance 

Pierces  the  untravelled  realms  of  Ocean's  bed 

(Where  live  the  innocent  as  far  from  cares 

As  from  the  storms  and  overwhelming  waves 

Dark  tumbling  on  the  surface  of  the  deep), 

Over  the  abysm,  even  to  that  uttermost  cave 

By  mis-shaped  prodigies  beleaguered,  such 

As  Earth  ne'er  bred,  nor  Air,  cor  the  upper  Sea. 

There  dwells  the  Fury  Form,  whose  unheard  name 
With  eager  eye,  pale  cheek,  suspended  breath, 
And  lips  half-opening  with  the  dread  of  sound, 
Unsleeping  SILENCE  guards,  worn  out  with  fear 
Lest  haply  escaping  on  some  treacherous  blast 
The  fateful  word  let  slip  the  Elements 
And  frenzy  Nature.    Yet  the  wizard  her,   » 
Armed  with  Torngarsuck'st  power,  the  Spirit  of  Good, 
Forces  to  unchain  the  foodful  progeny 
Of  the  Ocean  stream. — Wild  phantasies !  yet  wise, 
On  the  victorious  goodness  of  high  God 
Teaching  Reliance,  and  Medicinal  Hope, 
Till  from  Bethabra  northward,  heavenly  Truth 
With  gradual  steps  winning  her  difficult  way, 
Transfer  their  rude  Faith  perfected  and  pure. 

If  there  be  Beings  of  higher  class  than  Man, 

*  Jaibme  Aibmo. 

t  They  call  the  Good  Spirit  Torngarsuck.  The  other  great  but 
malignant  spirit  is  a  nameless  Female  :  she  dwells  under  the  sea  in 
a  great  house,  where  she  can  detain  in  captivity  all  the  animals  of 
the  ocean  by  her  magic  power.  When  a  dearth  befalls  the  Green- 
landers,  an  Angekok  or  magician  must  undertake  a  journey  thither. 
He  passes  through  the  kingdom  of  souls,  over  an  horrible  abyss  into 
the  Palace  of  this  phantom,  and  by  his  enchantments  causes  the 
captive  creatures  to  ascend  directly  to  the  surface  of  the  ocean. 
See  CKANIZ'  Hist,  of  Greenland,  vol.  i.  206. 


80  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

I  deem  no  nobler  province  they  possess, 

Than  by  disposal  of  apt  circumstance 

To  rear  up  Kingdoms  :  and  the  deeds  they  prompt, 

Distinguishing  from  mortal  agency, 

They  chuse  their  human  ministers  from  such  states 

As  still  the  Epic  Song  half  fears  to  name, 

Repelled  from  all  the  Minstrelsies  that  strike 

The  Palace-Roof  and  sooth  the  Monarch's  pride. 

And  such,  perhaps,  the  Spirit,  who  (if  words 
Witnessed  Ly  answering  deeds  may  claim  oiir  Faith) 
Held  commune  with  that  warrior-maid  of  Franco 
Who  scourged  the  Invader.     From  her  infant  days, 
With  Wisdom,  Mother  of  retired  Thoughts, 
Her  soul  had  dwelt ;  and  she  vas  quick  to  mark 
The  good  and  evil  thing,  in  human  lore 
Undisciplined.     For  lowly  was  her  Birth, 
And  Heaven  had  doomed  her  early  years  to  Toil 
That  pure  from  Tyranny's  least  deed,  herself 
Unfeared  by  Fellow-natures,  she  might  wait 
On  the  poor  Labouring  man  with  kindly  looks, 
And  minister  refreshment  to  the  tired 
Way-wanderer,  when  along  the  rough-hewn  Bench 
The  sweltry  man  had  stretched  him,  and  aloft 
Vacantly  watched  the  rudely  pictured  board 
Which  on  the  Mulberry-bough  with  welcome  creak 
Swung  to  the  pleasant  breeze.     Here,  too,  the  Maid 
Learnt  more  than  Schools  could  teach :    Man's  shifting 
His  Vices  and  his  Sorrows!     And  full  oft  [mind, 

At  Tales  of  cruel  Wrong  and  strange  Distress 
Had  wept  and  shivered.     To  the  tottering  Eld 
Still  as  a  Daughter  would  she  run  :  she  placed 
His  cold  Limbs  at  the  sunny  Door,  and  loved 
To  hear  him  story,  in  his  garrulous  sort, 
Of  his  eventful  years,  all  come  and  gone. 

So  twenty  seasons  past.    The  Virgin's  Form, 
Active  and  tall,  nor  Sloth  nor  Luxury 
Had  shrunk  or  paled.     Her  front  sublime  and  broad, 
Her  flexile  eye-brows  wildly  haired  and  low, 
And  her  full  eye,  now  bright,  now  uuillumed, 
Spake  more  than  Woman's  Thought ;  and  all  her  face 
Was  moulded  to  such  Features  as  declared 
That  Pity  there  had  oft  and  strongly  worked, 
And  sometimes  Indignation.     Bold  her  mien, 
And  like  an  haughty  Huntress  of  the  woods 
She  moved  :  yet  sure  she  was  a  gentle  maid  ! 
And  in  each  motion  her  most  innocent  soul 
Beamed  forth  so  brightly,  that  who  saw  would  say 
Guilt  was  a  thing  impossible  in  her! 
Nor  idly  would  have  said — for  she  had  lived 


•Jt- 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  81 

In  this  bad  World,  as  in  a  place  of  Tombs 
And  touched  not  the  pollutions  of  the  Dead. 

'Twas  the  cold  season  when  the  Rustic's  eye 
From  the  drear  desolate  whiteness  of  his  fields 
Rolls  for  relief  to  watch  the  skiey  tints 
And  clouds  slow-varying  their  huge  imagery  ; 
When  now,  as  she  was  wont,  the  healthful  Maid 
Had  left  her  pallet  ere  one  beam  of  day 
Slanted  the  fog-smoke.    She  went  forth  alone 
Urged  by  the  indwelling  angel-guide,  that  oft, 
With  dim  inexplicable  sympathies 
Disquieting  the  Heart,  shapes  out  Man's  course 
To  the  predoomed  adventure.    Now  the  ascent 
She  climbs  of  that  steep  upland,  on  whose  top 
The  Pilgrim-Man,  who  long  since  eve  had  watched 
The  alien  shine  of  unconceruing  Stars, 
Shouts  to  himself,  there  first  the  Abbey-lights 
Seen  in  Neufchatel's  vale ;  now  slopes  adown 
The  winding  sheep-track  valeward  •  when,  behold 
In  the  first  entrance  of  tho  level  road 
An  unattended  Team !     The  foremost  horse 
Lay  with  stretched  limbs  ;  the  others,  yet  alive 
But  stiff  and  cold,  stood  motionless,  their  manes 
Hoar  with  the  frozen  night-dews.    Dismally 
The  dark-red  dawn  new  glimmered ;  but  its  gleams 
Disclosed  no  face  of  man.    The  maiden  paused, 
Then  hailed  who  might  be  near.    No  voice  rep.ied. 
From  the  thwart  wain  at  length  there  reached  her  ear 
A  sound  so  feeble  that  it  almost  seemed 
Distant :  and  feebly,  with  slow  effort  pushed, 
A  miserable  man  crept  forth  :  his  limbs 
The  silent  frost  had  eat,  scathing  like  fire. 
Faint  on  the  shafts  he  rested.    She,  mean  time, 
Saw  crowded  close  beneath  the  coverture 
A  mother  and  her  children — lifeless  all, 
Yet  lovely !  not  a  lineament  was  marred — 
Death  had  put  on  so  slumber-like  a  form  ! 
It  was  a  piteous  sight ;  and  one,  a  babe,    ' 
The  crisp  milk  frozen  on  its  innocent  lips, 
Lay  on  the  woman's  arm,  its  little  hand 
Stretched  on  her  bosom. 

Mutely  questioning, 

The  Maid  gazed  wildly  at  the  living  wretch. 
He,  his  head  feebly  turning,  on  the  gioup 
Looked  with  a  vacant  stare,  and  his  eyes  spoke 
The  drowsy  calm  that  steals  on  worn-out  anguish. 
She  shuddered :  but,  each  vainer  pang  subdued, 
Quick  disentangling  from  the  foremost  horse 
The  rustic  bands,  with  difficulty  and  toil 
The  stiff  cramped  team  forced  homeward.   There  arrived, 
D* 


82  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

Anxiously  tends  him  she  with  healing  herbs, 

And  weeps  and  prays — but  the  numb  power  of  Death 

Spreads  o'er  his  limbs  ;  and  ere  the  noon-tide  hour, 

The  hovering  spirits  of  his  Wife  and  Babes 

Hail  him  immortal !     Yet  amid  his  pangs, 

With  interruptions  long  from  ghastly  throes, 

His  voice  had  faltered  out  this  simple  tale. 

The  Village,  where  he  dwelt  an  Husbandman 
By  sudden  inroad  had  been  seized  aud  fired 
Late  on  the  yester-evening.     With  his  wife 
And  little  ones  he  hurried  his  escape. 
They  saw  the  neighbouring  Hamlets  flame,  they  heard 
Uproar  and  shrieks  !  and  terror-struck  drove  oil 
Through  unfrequented  roads,  a  weary  way ! 
But  saw  nor  house  nor  cottage.    All  had  quenched 
Their  evening  hearth-fire  :  for  the  alarm  had  spread. 
The  air  dipt  keen,  the  night  was  fanged  with  frost 
And  they  provisionless !    The  weeping  wife 
111  hushed  her  children's  moans  ;   and  still  they  moaned, 
Till  Fright  and  Cold  and  Hunger  drank  their  life. 
They  closed  their  eyes  in  sleep,  nor  knew  'twas  Death. 
He  only,  lashing  his  o'er-wearied  team, 
Gained  a  sad  respite,  till  beside  the  base 
Of  the  high  hill  his  foremost  horse  dropped  dead. 
Then  hopeless,  strengthless,  sick  for  lack  of  food, 
He  crept  beneath  the  coverture,  entranced, 
Till  wakened  by  the  maiden. — Such  his  tale. 

Ah !  suffering  to  the  height  of  what  was  suffered, 
Stung  with  too  keen  a  sympathy,  the  Maid 
Brooded  with  moving  lips,  mute,  starfcful,  dark! 
And  now  her  flushed  tumultuous  features  shot 
Such  strange  vivacity,  as  fires  the  eye 
Of  misery  Fancy-crazed !  and  now  once  more 
Naked,  and  void,  and  fixed,  and  all  within 
The  unquiet  silence  of  confused  thought 
And  shapeless  feelings.    For  a  mighty  hand 
Was  strong  upon  her,  till  in  the  heat  of  soul 
To  the  high  hill-top  tracing  back  her  steps, 
Aside  the  beacon,  up  whose  smouldered  stones 
The  tender  ivy-trails  crept  thinly,  there, 
Unconscious  of  the  driving  element, 
Yea,  swallowed  up  in  the  ominous  dream  she  sate, 
Ghastly  as  broad-eyed  Slumber !  a  dim  anguish 
Breathed  from  her  look !  and  still  with  pant  and  sob, 
Inly  she  toil'd  to  flee,  and  still  subdued, 
Felt  an  inevitable  Presence  near. 

Thus  as  she  toiled  in  troublous  ecstasy, 
An  horror  of  great  darkness  wrapt  her  round, 
,    And  a  voice  uttered  forth  unearthly  tones, 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  83 

Calming  her  soul,— "O  Thou  of  the  Most  High 
"  Chosen,  whom  all  the  perfected  in  Heaven 
"  Behold  expectant 

[The  following  fragments  were  intended  to  form  part  of  the  Poem 
rhen  finished.] 

"  Maid  beloved  of  Heaven ! 
(To  her  the  tutelary  Power  exclaimed) 
"  Of  CHAOS  the  adventurous  progeny 
"  Thou  seest ,  foul  missionaries  of  foal  sire, 
"  Fierce  to  regain  the  losses  of  that  hour 
"  When  LOVE  rose  glittering,  and  his  gorgeous  wings 
"  Over  the  abyss  fluttered  with  such  glad  noise, 
"  As  what  time  after  long  and  pestful  calms, 
"  With  slimy  shapes  and  miscreated  life 
"Poisoning  the  vast  Pacific,  the  fresh  breeze 
"  Wakens  the  merchant-sail  uprising.    Night 
"  An  heavy  unimaginable  moan 
"Sent  forth,  when  she  the  PROTOPLAST  beheld 
"  Stand  beauteous  on  Confusion's  charmed  wave. 
"  Moaning  she  fled,  and  entered  the  Profound 
"  That  leads  with  downward  windings  to  the  Cave 
' '  Of  darkness  palpable,  Desert  of  Death 
"  Sunk  deep  beneath  GEHENNA'S  massy  roots. 
"  There  many  a  dateless  age  the  beldame  lurked 
"  And  trembled ;  till  engendered  by  fierce  HATE, 
"  Fierce  HATE  and  gloomy  HOPE,  a  DREAM  arose, 
11  Shaped  like  a  black  cloud  marked  with  streaks  of  fire. 
"It  roused  the  Hell-Hag:  she  the  dew-damp  wiped 
"  From  off  her  brow,  and  through  the  uncouth  maze 
"  Retraced  her  steps ;  but  ere  she  reached  the  mouth 
"  Of  that  drear  labyrinth,  shuddering  she  paused, 
"  Nor  dared  re-enter  the  diminished  Gulph. 
"As  through  the  dark  vaults  of  some  mouldered  Tower 
"  (\Vhich,  fea,rful  to  approach,  the  evening  Hind 
"  Circles  at  distance  in  his  homeward  way) 
"The  winds  breathe  hollow,  deemed  the  plaining  groan 
"  Of  prisoned  spirits ;  with  such  fearful  voice 
"  NIGHT  murmured,  and  the  sound  through  Chaos  went. 
"  Leaped  at  her  call  her  hideous-fronted  brood ! 
"  A  dark  behest  they  heard,  and  rushed  on  earth  ; 
"  Since  that  sad  hour,  in  Camps  and  Courts  adored, 
"  Rebels  from  God,  and  Monarchs  o'er  Mankind !" 


From  his  obscure  haunt 
Shrieked  FEAR,  of  Cruelty  the  ghastly  Dam, 
Feverish  yet  freezing,  eager-paced  yet  slow, 
As  she  that  creeps  from  forth  her  swampy  reeds, 
Ague,  the  biform  Hag !  when  early  Spring 
Beams  on  the  marsh-bred  vapours. 


84  JUVENILE  POEMS. 

"Even  so"  (tho  exulting  Maiden  said) 
'  The  sainted  Heralds  of  Good  Tidings  fell, 
'  And  thus  they  witnessed  God!    But  now  the  clouds 
'  Treading,  and  storms  beneath  their  feet,  they  soar 
1  Higher,  and  higher  soar,  and  soaring  sing 
'  Loud  songs  of  Triumph !     O  ye  spirits  of  God, 
'  Hover  around  my  mortal  agonies !" 
She  spake,  and  instantly  faint  melody 
Melts  on  her  ear,  soothing  and  sad,  and  slow, 
Such  measures,  as  at  calmest  midnight  heard 
By  aged  Hermit  in  his  holy  dream, 
Foretell  and  solace  death  ;  and  now  they  rise 
Louder,  as  when  with  harp  and  mingled  voice 
The  white-robed*  multitude  of  slaughtered  saints 
At  Heaven's  wide-opened  portals  gratulant 
Receive  some  martyr' d  Patriot.     The  harmony 
Entranced  the  Maid,  till  each  suspended  sense 
Brief  slumber  seized,  and  confused  ecstasy. 

At  length  awakening  slow,  she  gazed  around : 
And  through  a  Mist,  the  relict  of  that  trance, 
Still  thinning  as  she  gazed,  an  Isle  appeared, 
Its  high,  o'er-hanging,  white,  broad-breasted  cliffs, 
Glassed  on  the  subject  ocean.    A  vast  plain 
Stretched  opposite',  where  ever  and  anon 
The  Plough-man,  following  sad  his  meagre  team 
Turned  up  fresh  sculls  unstartled,  and  the  bones 
Of  fierce  hate-breathing  combatants,  who  there 
All  mingled  lay  beneath  the  common  earth, 
Death's  gloomy  reconcilement !     O'er  the  fields 
Stept  a  fair  form,  repairing  all  she  might, 
Her  temples  olive-wreathed;  and  where  she  trod, 
Fresh  flowerets  rose,  and  many  a  foodful  herb. 
But  wan  her  cheek,  her  footsteps  insecure, 
And  anxious  pleasure  beamed  in  her  faint  eye, 
As  she  had  newly  left  a  couch  of  pain, 
Pale  Convalescent !    (Yet  some  time  to  rule 
With  power  exclusive  o'er  the  willing  world, 
That  blessed  prophetic  mandate  then  fulfilled 
PEACE  be  on  Earth !)    An  happy  while,  but  brief, 
She  seemed  to  wander  with  assiduous  feet, 
And  healed  the  recent  harm  of  chill  and  blight, 
And  nursed  each  plant  that  fair  and  virtuous  grew. 

But  soon  a  deep  precursive  sound  moaned  hollow : 
Black  rose  the  clouds,  and  now,  (as  in  a  dream) 

*  Revel,  vi.  9,  11.  And  when  he  had  opened  the  fifth  seal,  I  saw 
under  the  altar  the  souls  of  them  that  were  slain  for  the  word  of 
God,  and  for  the  testimony  which  they  held .  And  white  robes  were 
piven  unto  every  one  of  them;  and  it  was  said  unto  them,  that  t  <?y 
should  rest  yet  for  a  little  season,  until  their  fellow-servants  also 
and  their  brethren,  that  should  be  killed  as  they  were,  should  be  ful- 
filled. 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  85 

Their  reddening  shapes,  transformed  to  Warrior-hosts, 

Coursed  o'er  the  Sky,  and  battled  in  mid-air. 

Nor  did  not  the  large  blood-drops  fall  from  Heaven 

Portentous !  while  aloft  were  seen  to  float, 

Like  hideous  features  booming  on  the  mist, 

Wan  Stains  of  ominous  Light !  Resigned,  yet  sad, 

The  fair  Form  bowed  her  olive-crowned  Brow, 

Then  o'er  the  plain  with  oft  reverted  eye 

Fled  till  a  Place  of  Tombs  she  reached,  and  there 

Within  a  ruined  Sepulchre  obscure 

Found  Hiding-place. 

The  delegated  Maid 

Gazed  through  her  tears,  then  in  sad  tones  exclaimed 
"  Thou  mild-eyed  FORM  !  wherefore,  ah !  wherefore  fled  ?" 
"  The  power  of  JUSTICE  like  a  name  all  Light, 
"  Shone  from  thy  brow ;  but  all  they,  who  unblamed 
"  Dwelt  in  thy  dwellings,  call  tbee  HAPPINESS. 
"  Ah  !  why,  uninjured  and  unprofited, 
"  Should  multitudes  against  their  brethren  rush  ? 
"  Why  sow  they  guilt,  still  reaping  Misery  ? 
"  Lenient  of  care,  thy  songs,  O  PEACE  !  are  sweet, 
"As  after  showers  the  perfumed  gale  of  eve, 
"  That  flings  the  cool  drops  on  a  feverous  cheek  : 
"  And  gay  thy  grassy  altar  piled  with  fruits. 
"  But  boasts  the  shrine  of  Daemon  War  one  charm, 
"  Save  that  with  many  an  orgie  strange  and  foul, 
"  Dancing  around  with  interwoven  arms, 
"The  Maniac  SUICIDE  and  Giant  MURDER 
• '  Exult  in  their  tierce  union  !    I  am  sad, 
"  And  know  not  why  the  simple  Peasants  crowd 
"  Beneath  the  Chieftain's  standard  P    Thus  the  Maid. 

To  her  the  tutelary  Spirit  replied : 
"  When  Luxury  and  Lust's  exhausted  stores 
"  No  more  can  rouse  the  appetites  of  KINGS  ; 
"  When  the  low  flattery  of  their  reptile  Lords 
"  Falls  flat  and  heavy  on  the  accustomed  ear ; 
"  When  Eunuchs  sing,  and  Fools  buffoonery  make, 
"  And  Dancers  writhe  their  harlot-limbs  in  vain; 
"  Then  WTAR  and  all  its  dread  vicissitudes 
"  Pleasingly  agitate  their  stagnant  Hearts  ; 
"  Its  hopes,  its  fears,  its  victories,  its  defeats, 
"  Inspired  Royalty's  keen  condiment ! 
"  Therefore,  uninjured  and  nn profited, 
"  (Victims  at  once  and  Executioners) 
"  The  congregated  Husbandmen  lay  waste 
"  The  Vineyard  and  the  Harvest.    As  al?ug 
"  The  Bothnic  coast,  or  southward  of  the  Line, 
"  Though  hushed  the  Winds  and  cloudless  the  high  Noon, 
"  Yet  if  LEVIATHAN,  weary  of  ease, 
"  In  sports  unwieldy  toss  his  Island-bulk, 


—         ffl 

86  JUVENILE   POEMS. 

"  Ocean  behind  him  billows,  and  before 

"  A  storm  of  waves  breaks  foamy  on  the  strand. 

"  And  hence,  for  times  and  seasons  bloody  and  dark, 

"  Short  Peace  shall  skin  the  wounds  of  causeless  War, 

"  And  War,  his  strained  sinews  knit  anew, 

"  Still  violate  the  uiifinished  works  of  Peace. 

"  But  yonder  look !  for  more  demands  thy  view !" 

He  said :  and  straightway  from  the  opposite  Isle 

A  Vapour  sailed,  as  when  a  cloud,  exhaled 

From  Egypt's  fields  that  steam  hot  pestilence, 

Travels  the  sky  for  many  a  trackless  league, 

Till  o'er  some  Death-doom  land,  distant  in  vain, 

It  broods  incumbent.    Forthwith  from  the  Plain, 

Facing  the  Isle,  a  brighter  cloud  arose, 

And  steered  its  course  which  way  the  Vapour  went. 

The  Maiden  paused,  musing  what  this  might  mean. 
But  long  time  passed  not,  ere  that  brighter  Cloud 
Returned  more  bright;  along  the  Plain  it  swept ; 
And  soon  from  forth  its  bursting  sides  emerged 
A  dazzling  form,  broad-bosomed,  bold  of  eye, 
And  wild  her  hair,  save  where  with  laurels  bound. 
Not  more  majestic  stood  the  healing  God, 
When  from  his  bow  the  arrow  sped  that  slew 
Huge  Python.    Shriek'd  AMBITION'S  giant  throng, 
And  with  them  hissed  the  Locust-fiends  that  crawled 
And  glittered  in  CORRUPTION'S  slimy  track. 
Great  was  their  wrath,  for  short  they  knew  their  n-ign  ; 
And  such  commotion  made  they,  and  uproar, 
As  when  the  mad  Tornado  bellows  through 
The  guilty  islands  of  the  western  main, 
What  time  departing  from  their  native  shores, 
Eboe,  or  *  Koromantyn's  plain  of  Palms, 
The  infuriate  spirits  of  the  Murdered  make 

*  The  Slaves  in  the  West  Indies  consider  death  as  a  passport  to 
their  native  country.  This  sentiment  is  thus  expressed  in  the  in- 
troduction to  a  Greek  Prize  Ode  on  the  Slave  Trade,  of  which  the 
ideas  are  better  than  the  language  in  which  they  are  conveyed. 


..»«.„.„.,  Tri'Aa?,  ©afare,  irpokctiriav 
Es  yevo?  (TtrevSois  vno£fv\0tv  ATO- 
Ov  fevia'drjfffl  yei'VWf  arrapayixot? 

Ovd'  oAoAvy/iu), 

AAAa  »cat  Ki/(cAoicrt  ^opoirv7roi<ri 

AAA*  ouws  EAeudepio  <rvfoiKci; 

Tupawe  I 


Aaaxioi?  eirei  irrepvyfVffi  <TI)<TL 
A!  BaXaaaiov  Kaflopan'res  oifi^xa 
vno  rroaa'  aveun 

IlaTptfi'  e»r'  aiav. 


JUVENILE  POEMS.  87 

Fierce  merriment,  and  vengeance  ask  of  Heaven. 
Warmed  with  new  influence,  the  unwholesome  Plain 
Sent  up  its  foulest  fogs  to  meet  the  Morn : 
The  Sun  that  rose  on  FREEDOM,  rose  in  BLOOD  ! 

"  Maiden  beloved,  and  Delegate  of  Heaven !" 
(To  her  the  tutelary  Spirit  said) 
"  Soon  shall  the  Morning  struggle  into  Day, 
"  The  stormy  Morning  into  cloudless  Noon. 
"  Much  hast  thou  seen,  nor  all  canst  understand — 
"  But  this  be  thy  best  Omen — SAVE  THY  COUNTRY  !" 
Thus  saying,  from  the  answering  Maid  he  passed, 
And  with  him  disappeared  the  Heavenly  Vision. 

"Glory  to  Thee,  Father  of  Earth  and  Heaven ! 

"  All  conscious  PRESENCE  of  the  Universe ! 

" Nature's  vast  Ever-acting  ENERGY! 
'  In  Will,  in  Deed,  IMPULSE  of  All  to  All ! 
'  Whether  thy  Love  with  unrefracted  Ray 
1  Beam  on  the  PROPHET'S  purged  eye,  or  if 
'  Diseasing  Realms  the  ENTHUSIAST,  wild  of  Thought, 
'  Scatter  new  Frenzies  on  the  infected  Throng, 
'  Thou  Both  inspiring  and  predooming  Both, 
'  Fit  INSTRUMENTS  and  best,  of  perfect  End  : 

"  Glory  to  Thee,  Father  of  Earth  aud  Heaven  !" 


And  first  a  Landscape  rose, 
More  wild  and  waste  and  desolate  than  where 
The  white  bear,  drifting  on  a  field  of  ice, 
Howls  to  her  sundered  cubs  with  piteous  rage 
And  savage  agony. 


Ecda  fJLOii'  Epacrcu 

A/u.(/>i  77777170-11'  mrpivtav  vn    aAcrojz', 

Ocro-'  viro  /Sporois  enaOov  /3poroi,  ra 

Aeii/a 


LITERAL   TRANSLATION. 

Leaving  the  Gates  of  Darkness,  O  Death !  hasten  thou  to  a  Race 
yoked  with  Misery!  Thou  wilt  not  be  received  with  lacerations  of 
cheeks,  nor  with  funereal  ululation— but  with  circling  dances  and 
the  joy  of  songs.  Thou  art  terrible  indeed,  yet  thou  dwellest  with 
LIBERTY,  stern  GENIUS!  Borne  on  thy  dark  pinions  over  the  swell- 
ing of  Ocean,  they  return  to  their  native  countiy.  There,  by  the  side 
of  Fountains  beneath  Citron-groves,  the  lovers  tell  to  their  beloved 
what  horrors,  being  Men,  they  had  endured  from  Men. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

I.— POEMS  OCCASIONED  BY  POLITICAL  EVENTS 
OR  FEELINGS  CONNECTED  WITH  THEM. 


WHEN  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 

Great  nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 

When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 

The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 

I  had,  my  country !    Am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 

But,  when  I  think  of  Thee,  and  what  Thou  art, 

Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 

Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 

But  dearly  must  we  prize  thee;  we  who  find 

In  thee  a  bulwark  of  the  cause  of  men ; 

And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled. 

What  wonder  if  a  poet,  now  and  then, 

Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  Lover  or  a  Child. 

WORDSWORTH. 


ODE  TO  THE  DEPARTING  YEAR.* 

IOU,     tOV,    b>    U>    KOLKOL. 

Yw"  av  fie  Seifb?  6p#o/u.aireias  irova^ 
^.Tpoftei,  Tapoiao-ioi'  </>poi/xioi«t, 
***** 
To  fxe'AAor  Jjfei-     Kai  <ru  firfv  rd\«. 
'Ayav  y'  aArjtfo/u  ai/ni/  ft.'  <p«? 


Again.  1225. 


ARGUMENT. 


The  Ode  commences  with  an  Address  to  the  Divine  Providence, 
that  regulates  into  one  vast  harmony  all  the  events  of  time,  how- 
ever calamitous  some  of  them  may  appear  to  mortals.  TLe  second 
Strophe  calls  on  men  to  suspend  their  private  joys  and  sorrows,  and 
devote  them  for  a  while  to  the  cause  of  human  nature  in  general. 
The  first  Epode  speaks  of  the  Empress  of  Russia,  who  died  of  an 
apoplexy  on  the  17th  of  November,  1796;  having  just  concluded  a 
subsidiary  ti  eaty  with  the  Kings  combined  against  France.  The 
first  and  second  Antistrophe  describe  the  Image  of  the  Departing 
Year,  &c.,  as  in  a  vision.  The  second  prophesies,  in  anguish  or  spirit, 
the  downfall  of  this  country. 


SPIRIT  who  sweepest  the  wild  Harp  of  Time ! 
It  is  most  hard  with  an  untroubled  ear 

*  This  Ode  was  composed  on  the  24th,  25th,  and  26th  days  of  De- 
cember, 1796;  and  was  first  published  on  the  last  day  of  that  year. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  89 

Thy  dark  inwoven  harmonies  to  hear ! 
Yet,  mine  eye  fixed  on  Heaven's  unchanging  clime, 
Long  had  I  listened,  free  from  mortal  fear, 

With  inward  stillness,  and  submitted  mind ; 

When  lo !  its  folds  far  waving  on  the  wind, 
I  saw  the  train  of  the  DEPARTING  YEAR! 

Starting  from  my  silent  sadness 

Then  with  no  unholy  madness 
Ere  yet  the  entered  cloud  foreclosed  my  sight, 
I  raised  the  impetuous  song,  and  solemnized  his  flight. 


Hither,  from  the  recent  Tomb, 
From  the  Prison's  direr  gloom, 
From  Distemper's  midnight  anguish ; 
And  thence,  where  Poverty  doth  waste  and  languish; 
Or  where,  his  two  bright  torches  blending, 

Love  illumines  Manhood's  maze ; 
Or  where  o'er  cradled  infants  bending 
Hope  has  fixed  her  wishful  gaze. 

Hither,  in  perplexed  dance, 
Ye  Woes!  ye  young-eyed  Joys!  advance! 
By  Time's  wild  harp,  and  by  the  hand 
Whose  indefatigable  sweep 
Raises  its  fateful  strings  from  sleep, 
I  bid  you  haste,  a  mixed  tumultuous  band  ! 
From  every  private  bower, 

And  each  domestic  hearth, 
Haste  for  one  solemn  hour ; 
And  with  a  loud  and  yet  a  louder  voice, 
O'er  Nature  struggling  in  portentous  birth, 

Weep  and  rejoice ! 

Still  echoes  the  dread  NAME  that  o'er  the  earth 
Let  slip  the  storm,  and  woke  the  brood  of  Hell. 

And  now  advance  in  saintly  Jubilee 
Justice  and  Truth  !    They  too  have  heard  thy  spell, 
They  too  obey  thy  name,  Diviuest  LIBEJRTY  ! 

in.     • 

I  marked  Ambition  in  his  war-array ! 

I  heard  the  mailed  Monarch's  troublous  cry — 
"  Ah!  wherefore  does  the  Northern  Conqueress  stay  ? 
"  Groans  not  her  chariot  on  its  onward  way  f 
Fly,  mailed  Monarch,  fly  ! 

Stunned  by  Death's  twice  mortal  mace, 

No  more  on  Murder's  lurid  face 
The  insatiate  hag  shall  gloat  with  drunken  eye ! 

Manes  of  the  unnumbered  slain  ! 

Ye  that  gasped  on  WARSAW'S  plain! 
Ye  that  erst  at  ISMAIL'S  tower, 
When  human  ruin  choked  the  streams, 


90 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


Fell  in  conquest's  glutted  hour. 
Mid  women's  shrieks  and  infants*  screams ! 
Spirits  of  the  un coffined  slain, 

Sudden  blasts  of  triumph  swelling, 
Oft,  at  night,  in  misty  train, 

Rush  around  her  narrow  dwelling ! 
The  exterminating  fiend  is  fled — 

(Foul  her  life,  and  dark  her  doom) 
Mighty  armies  of  the  dead 

Dance  like  death-fires  round  her  tomb ! 
Then  with  prophetic  song  relate, 
Each  some  tyrant-murderer's  fate ! 

IV. 

Departing  Year  !  'twas  on  no  earthly  shore 
My  soul  beheld  thy  vision  !    Where  alone, 
Voiceless  and  stern,  before  the  cloudy  throne, 
Aye  MEMORY  sits :  thy  robe  inscribed  with  gore, 
With  many  an  unimaginable  groan 
Thou  storied'st  thy  sad  hours  !    Silence  ensued, 
Deep  silence  o'er  the  ethereal  multitude, 
Whose  locks  with  wreaths,  whose  wreaths  with  glories 
•  shone. 

Then,  his  eye  wild  ardours  glancing, 
From  the  choired  Gods  advancing, 
The  SPIRIT  of  the  EARTH  made  reverence  meet, 
And  stood  up,  beautiful,  before  the  cloudy  seat. 

V. 

Throughout  the  blissful  throng, 
Hushed  were  harp  and  song: 

Till  wheeling  round  the  throne  the  LAMPADS  seven, 
(The  mystic  Words  of  Heaven) 
Permissive  signal  make : 

The  fervent  Spirit  bowed,  then  spread  his  wings  and  spake ! 
"  Thou  in  stormy  blackness  throning 

"  Love  and  uncreated  Light, 
"By  the  Earth's  unsolaced  groaning, 
"  Seize  thy  terrors,  Arm  of  might! 
"  By  Peace,  with  proffered  insult  scared, 
"Masked -Hate  and  envying  Scorn ! 
"  By  years  of  Havoc  yet  unborn ! 
"And  Hunger's  bosom  to  the  frost- winds  bared  ! 
"But  chief  by  Afric's  wrongs, 

"  Stranger  horrible,  and  foul ! 
"  By  what  deep  guilt  belongs 
"To  the  deaf  Synod,  'full  of  gifts  and  lies!' 
"  By  Wealth's  insensate  laugh !  by  Torture's  howl ! 

"  Avenger,  rise ! 

"  For  ever  shall  the  thankless  Island  scowl, 
"  Her  quiver  full,  and  with  unbroken  bow  T 
"  Speak !  from  thy  storm-black  Heaven  O  speak  aloud  ! 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  91 

"  And  on  the  darkling  foe 
"Open  thine  eye  of  fire  from  some  uncertain  cloud! 

"  O  dart  the  flash !     O  rise  and  deal  the  blow ! 
"The  Past  to  thee,  to  tbee  the  Future  cries! 
"  Hark!  how  wide  Nature  joins  her  groans  below! 
"  Rise,  God  of  Nature !  rise.  > 

VI. 

The  voice  had  ceased,  the  vision  fled ; 
Yet  still  I  gasped  and  reeled  with  dread. 
And  ever,  when  the  dream  of  night 
Renews  the  phantom  to  my  sight, 
Cold  sweat-drops  gather  on  my  limbs ; 

My  ears  throb  hot;  my  eye-balls  start ; 
My  brain  with  horrid  tumult  swims; 

Wild  is  the  tempest  of  my  heart ; 
And  my  thick  and  struggling  breath 
Imitates  the  toil  of  Death  ! 
No  stranger  agony  confounds 

The  Soldier  on  the  war-field  spread, 
When  all  foredone  with  toil  and  wounds, 

Death-like  he  dozes  among  heaps  of  dead; 
(The  strife  is  o'er,  the  day-light  fled, 

And  the  night-wind  clamours  hoarse ! 
See !  the  starting  wretch's  head 

Lies  pillowed  on  a  brother's  corse !) 

VII. 

Not  yet  enslaved,  not  wholly  vile, 
O  Albion !    O  my  mother  Isle ! 
Thy  vallies,  fair  as  Eden's  bowers; 
Glitter  green  with  sunny  showers ; 
Thy  grassy  uplands'  gentle  swells 

Echo  to  the  bleat  of  flocks ; 
(Those  grassy  hills,  those  glittering  dells 

Proudly  ramparted  with  rocks) 
And  OCEAN  mid  his  uproar  wild 
Speaks  safety  to  his  ISLAND-CHILD  ! 

Hence  for  many  a  fearless  age 

Has  social  Quiet  loved  thy  shore; 
Nor  ever  proud  Invader's  rage 
Or  sacked  thy  towers,  or  stained  thy  fields  with  gore. 

vm. 

Abandoned  of  Heaven!  mad  Avarice  thy  guide, 

At  cowardly  distance,  yet  kindling  with  pride — 

Mid  thy  herbs  and  thy  corn-fields  secure  thou  hast  stood, 

And  joined  the  wild  yelling  of  Famine  and  Blood ! 

The  nations  curse  thee !     They  with  eager  wondering 

Shall  hear  DESTRUCTION,  like  a  Vulture,  scream! 

Strange-eyed  DESTRUCTION  !  who  with  many  a  dream 


•H- 


92  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Of  central  fires  through  nether  seas  uptlmuciering 
Soothes  her  fierce  solitude  ;  yet  as  she  lies 

By  livid  fount,  or  red  volcanic  stream, 
If  ever  to  her  lidless  dragon-eyes, 
O  Albion  !  thy  predestined  ruins  rise, 

The  fiend-hag  on  her  perilous  couch  doth  leap, 

Muttering  distempered  triumph  in  her  charmed  sleep. 

IX. 

Away,  my  soul,  away! 

In  vain,  in  vain  the  Birds  of  warning  sing  - 
And  hark !  I  hear  the  famished  brood  of  prey 
Flap  their  lank  pennons  on  the  groaning  wind! 

Away,  niy  soul,  away! 
I  unpartaking  of  the  evil  thing, 
With  daily  prayer  and  daily  toil, 
Soliciting  for  food  iny  scanty  soil, 
Have  wailed  my  country  with  a  loud  Lament. 
Now  I  recentre  my  immortal  mind 

In  the  deep  sabbath  of  meek  self-content  ; 
Cleansed  from  the  vaporous  passions  that  bedim 
God's  Image,  sister  of  the  seraphim. 


FRANCE. 

AN  ODE. 
I. 

YE  Clouds!  that  far  above  mo  float  and  pause, 

Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  cnntroul ! 

Ye  Ocean-Waves!  that,  wheresoever  ye  mil, 
Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws ! 
Ye  \Voods!  that  listen  to  the  night-bird's  singing, 

Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined. 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches  swinging 

Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wind! 
Where,  like  a  man  beloved  of  God, 
Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman  trod, 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy, 
My  moonlight  way  o'er  flowering  weeds  I  wound, 

Inspired,  beyond  the  guess  of  folly. 
By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquerable  sound! 
O  ye  loud  Waves !  and  O  ye  Forests  high ! 

And  O  ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me  soared! 
Thou  rising  Sun !  thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky! 

Yea,  every  thing  that  is  and  will  be  free! 

Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be, 
With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still  adored 

The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  93 

II. 
When  France  in  wrath  her  giant-limbs  upreared, 

And  with  that  oath,  which  smote  air,  earth  and  sea, 

Stamped  her  strong  foot  and  said  she  would  be  free, 
Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I  hoped  and  feared! 
With  what  a  joy  my  lofty  gratulation 

Unawed  I  sang,  amid  a  slavish  band: 
And  when  to  whelm  the  disenchanted  nation, 

Like  fiends  embattled  by  a  wizard's  wand, 
The  Monarchs  marched  in  evil  day, 
And  Britain  joined  the  dire  array ; 

Though  dear  her  shores  and  circling  ocean, 
Though  many  friendships,  many  youthful  loves 

Had  swoln  the  patriot  emotion 

And  flung  a  magic  light  o'er  all  her  hills  and  groves  ; 
Yet  still  my  voice,  unaltered,  sang  defeat 

To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelling  lance, 
And  shame  too  long  delayed  and  vain  retreat ! 
For  ne'er,  O  Liberty  !  with  partial  aim 
I  dimmed  thy  light  or  damped  thy  holy  flame ; 

But  blessed  the  paeans  of  delivered  France, 
And  hung  my  head  and  wept  at  Britain's  name. 

in. 
"And  what,"  I  said,  "though  Blasphemy's  loud  scream 

"  With  that  sweet  music  of  deliverance  strove ! 

"  Though  all  the  fierce  and  drunken  passions  wove 
"A  dance  more  wild  than  e'er  was  maniac's  dream! 

"Ye  storms,  that  round  the  dawning  east  assembled, 
"The  Sun  was  rising,  though  ye  hid  his  lighfc!" 

And  when,  to  soothe  my  soul,  that  hoped  and  trembled, 
The  dissonance  ceased,  and  all  seemed  calm  and  bright ; 

When  France  her  front  deep-scarr'd  and  gory 

Concealed  with  clustering  wreaths  of  glory ; 
When,  insupportably  advancing, 

Her  arm  made  mockery  of  the  warrior's  tramp; 
While  timid  looks  of  fury  glancing, 

Domestic  treason,  crushed  beneath  her  fatal  stamp, 
Writhed  like  a  wounded  dragon  in  his  gore ; 

Then  I  reproached  my  fears  that  would  not  flee  : 
"  And  soon,"  I  said,  "shall  Wisdom  teach  her  lore 
"  In  the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and  groan! 
"And,  conquering  by  her  happiness  alone, 

'-  Shall  France  compel  the  nations  to  be  free, 
"  Till  Love  and  Joy  look  round,  and  call  the  Earth  their 
own." 

IV. 

Forgive  me,  Freedom!  O  forgive  those  dreams! 
I  hear  thy  voice,  I  hear  thy  loud  lament, 
From  bleak  Helvetia's  icy  caverns  sent — 

I  hear  thy  groans  upon  her  blood-stained  streams! 


•H- 


4  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Heroes,  that  for  your  peaceful  country  perished, 
And  ye  that,  fleeing,  spot  your  mountain-snows 

With  bleeding  wounds  ;  forgive  me,  that  I  cherished 
One  thought  that  ever  blessed  your  cruel  foes  ! 

To  scatter  rage,  and  traitorous  guilt, 

Where  Peace  her  jealous  home  had  built  ; 

A  patriot-race  to  disinherit 
Of  all  that  made  their  stormy  wilds  so  dear  ; 

And  with  inexpiable  spirit 

To  taint  the  bloodless  freedom  of  the  mountaineer— 
O  France,  that  mockest  Heaven,  adulterous,  blind, 

And  patriot  only  in  pernicious  toils! 
Are  these  thy  boasts,  Champion  of  human  kind  ; 

To  mix  with  Kings  in  the  low  lust  of  sway, 
Yell  in  the  hunt,  arid  share  the  murderous  prey  ; 
To  insult  the  shrine  of  Liberty  with  spoils 

From  freemen  torn  ;  to  tempt  and  to  betray  ! 

V. 

The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in  vain, 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion  !     In  mad  game 
They  burst  their  manacles  and  wear  the  name 

Of  Freedom,  graven  on  a  heavier  chain  ! 
O  Liberty  !  with  profitless  endeavour 
Have  I  pursued  thee,  many  a  weary  hour  ; 

But  thou  nor  swell'st  the  victor's  strain,  nor  ever 
Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human  power. 
Alike  from  all,  howe'er  they  praise  thee, 
(Not  prayer,  nor  boastful  name  delays  thee) 

Alike  from  Priestcraft's  harpy  minions, 
And  factious  Blasphemy's  obscener  slaves, 


Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions, 
guide  of  homeless  winds, 


The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  playmate  of  the  waves  ! 
And  there  I  felt  thee!—  on  that  sen-cliff's  verge, 

Whose  pines,  scarce  travelled  by  the  breeze  above, 
Had  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant  surge  ! 
Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  ray  temples  bare, 
And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea  and  air, 

Possessing  all  things  with  iutensest  love, 

O  Liberty  1  my  spirit  felt  thee  there. 
February,  1797. 


FEARS  IN  SOLITUDE. 

WRITTEN  IN  APRIL,   1798,   DURING  THE  ALARM  OP  AN 
INVASION. 

A  GREEN  and  silent  spot,  amid  the  hills, 
A  small  and  silent  dell !     O'er  stiller  plaice 
No  singing  sky-lark  ever  poised  himself. 
The  hills  are  heathy,  save  that  swelling  slope, 


: 
SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  95 

Which  hath  a  gay  and  gorgeous  covering  on, 
All  golden  with  the  never-bloomless  furze, 
Which  now  blooms  most  profusely ;  but  the  dell, 
Bathed  by  the  mist,  is  fresh  and  delicate 
As  vernal  corn-field,  or  the  unripe  flax, 
When,  through  its  half-transparent  stalks,  at  eve, 
(The  level  Sunshine  glimmers  with  green  light. 
)Oh !  'tis  a  quiet  spirit-healing  nook  ! 
Which  all,  methinks,  would  love ;  but  chiefly  he, 
The  humble  man,  who,  in  his  youthful  years, 
Knew  just  so  much  of  folly,  as  had  made 
His  early  manhood  more  securely  wise ! 
Here  he  might  lie  on  fern  or  withered  heath, 
While  from  the  singing  lark  (that  sings  unseen 
The  minstrelsy  that  solitude  loves  best,) 
And  from  the  Sun,  and  from  the  breezy  Air, 
Sweet  influences  trembled  o'er  his  frame ; 
And  he,  with  many  feelings,  many  thoughts, 
Made  up  a  meditative  joy,  and  found 
Religious  meanings  in  the  forms  of  nature ! 
And  so,  his  senses  gradually  wrapt 
In  a  half  sleep,  he  dreams  of  better  worlds, 
And  dreaming  hears  thee  still,  O  singing-lark, 
That  singest  like  an  angel  in  the  clouds! 

My  God!  it  is  a  melancholy  thing 
For  such  a  man,  who  would  full  vain  preserve 
His  soul  in  calmness,  yet  perforce  must  feel 
For  all  his  human  brethren — O  my  God ! 
It  weighs  upon  the  heart,  that  he  must  think 
What  uproar  and  what  strife  may  now  be  stirring 
This  way  or  that  way  o'er  these  silent  hills — 
Invasion,  and  the  thunder  and  the  shout, 
And  all  the  crash  of  onset ;  fear  and  rage, 
And  undetermined  conflict — even  now, 
Even  now,  perchance,  and  in  his  native  isle: 
Carnage  and  groans  beneath  this  blessed  Sun ! 
We  have  offended,  Oh !  countrymen  ! 
We  have  offended  very  grievously, 
And  been  most  tyrannous.    From  east  to  west 
A  groan  of  accusation  pierces  Heaven ! 
The  wretched  plead  against  us ;  multitudes 
Countless  and  vehement,  the  Sons  of  God, 
Our  brethren !    Like  a  cloud  that  travels  on, 
Steamed  up  from  Cairo's  swamps  of  pestilence, 
Even  so,  my  countrymen !  have  we  gone  forth 
And  borne  to  distant  tribes  slavery  and  pangs, 
And,  deadlier  far,  our  vices,  whose  deep  taint 
W'ith  slow  perdition  murders  the  whole  man, 
His  body  and  his  soul !    Meanwhile,  at  home, 
All  individual  dignity  and  power 
Engulfed  in  Courts,  Committees,  Institutions, 


96  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Associations  and  Societies, 

A  vain,  speech-mouthing,  speech-reporting  Guild, 

One  BENEFIT-CLUB  for  mutual  flattery, 

We  have  drunk  up,  demure  as  at  a  grace, 

Pollutions  from  the  brimming  cup  of  wealth; 

Contemptuous  of  all  honourable  rule, 

Yet  bartering  freedom  and  the  poor  man's  life 

For  gold,  as  at  a  market!    The  sweet  words 

Of  Christian  promise,  words  that  even  yet 

Might  stem  destruction,  were  they  wisely  preached, 

Are  muttered  o'er  by  men,  whose  tones  proclaim 

How  flat  and  wearisome  they  feel  their  trade : 

Rank  scoffers  some,  but  most  too  indolent 

To  deem  them  falsehoods  or  to  know  their  truth. 

Oh!  blasphemous!  the  book  of  life  is  made 

A  superstitious  instrument,  on  which 

We  gabble  o'er  the  oaths  we  mean  to  break ; 

For  all  must  swear — all  and  in  every  place, 

College  and  wharf,  council  and  justice-court; 

All,  all  must  swear,  the  briber  and  the  bribed, 

Merchant  and  lawyer,  senator  and  priest, 

The  rich,  the  poor,  the  old  man  and  the  young ; 

All,  all  makeup  one  scheme  of  perjury, 

That  faith  doth  reel ;  the  very  name  of  God 

Sounds  like  a  juggler's  charm  ;  and,  bold  with  joy, 

Forth  from  his  dark  and  lonely  hiding-place, 

(Portentous  sight!)  the  owlet,  ATHEISM, 

•Sailing  on  obscene  wings  athwart  the  noon, 

Drops  his  blue-fringed  lids,  and  holds  them  close 

And  hooting  at  the  glorious  Sun  in  Heaven, 

Cries  out,  "  Where  is  it  ?" 

Thankless  too  for  peace, 

(Peace  long  preserved  by  fleets  and  perilous  seas) 
Secure  from  actual  warfare,  we  have  loved 
To  swell  the  war-whoop,  passionate  for  war ! 
Alas !  for  ages  ignorant  of  all 
Its  ghastlier  workings,  (famine  or  blue  plague, 
Battle,  or  siege,  or  flight  through  wintry-snows,) 
We,  this  whole  people,  have  been  clamorous 
For  war  and  bloodshed  ;  animating  sports, 
The  which  we  pay  for  as  a  thing  to  talk  of, 
Spectators  and  not  combatants !    No  Guess 
Anticipative  of  a  wrong  unfelt, 
No  speculation  or  contingency, 
However  dim  and  vague,  too  vague  .and  dim 
To  yield  a  justifying  cause ;  and  forth, 
(Stuifed  out  with  big  preamble,  holy  names, 
And  adjurations  of  the  God  in  HeavVn.) 
P  We  send  our  mandates  for  the  certain  death 
I  Of  thousands  and  ten  thousands  I     BoyB  and  girls, 
\  And  women,  that  would  groan  t®  see  a  child 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  97 

\  Pull  off  an  insect's  leg,  all  read  of  war, 
)The  best  amusement  lor  our  morning  meal ! 
The  poor  wretch,  who  has  learnt  his  only  prayers 
From  curses,  who  kuows  scarcely  words  enough 
To  ask  a  blessing  from  his  Heavenly  Father, 
Becomes  a  fluent  phraseman,  absolute 
And  technical  in  victories  and  deceit, 
And  all  our  dainty  terms  for  fratricide  , 
Terms  which  we  trundle  smoothly  o'er  our  tongues 
Like  mere  abstractions,  empty  sounds  to  which 
We  join  no  feeling  and  attach  no  form ! 
As  if  the  soldier  died  without  a  wound ; 
As  if  the  fibres  of  this  godlike  frame 
Were  gorged  without  a  pang;  as  if  the  wretch, 
Who  fell  in  battle,  doing  bloody  deeds, 
Passed  off  to  Heaven,  translated  and  not  killed; — 
As  though  he  had  no  wife  to  pine  for  him, 
No  God  to  judge  him !     Therefore,  evil  days 
Are  coming  on  us,  0  my  countrymen! 
And  what  if  all-avenging  Providence, 
Strong  and  retributive,  should  make  us  know 
The  meaning  of  our  words,  force  us  to  feel 
The  desolation  and  the  agony 
Of  our  fierce  doings ! 

Spare  us  yet  awhile, 

Father  and  God !     Oh  !  spare  us  yet  awhile  ! 
Oh!  let  not  English  women  drag  their  flight 
Fainting  beneath  the  burthen  of  their  babes, 
Of  the  sweet  infants,  that  but  yesterday 
Laughed  at  the  breast!     Sous,  brothers,  husbands,  all 
Who  ever  gazed  with  fondness  on  the  forms 
Which  grew  up  with  you  round  the  same  fire-side, 
And  all  who  ever  heard  the  sabbath-bells 
Without  the  infidel's  scorn,  make  yourselves  pure! 
Stand  forth  !  be  men  !  repel  an  impious  foe, 
Impious  and  false,  a  light  yet  cruel  race, 
Who  laugh  away  all  virtue,  mingling  mirth 
With  deeds  of  murder;  and  still  promising 
Freedom,  themselves  too  sensual  to  be  free, 
Poison  life's  amities,  and  cheat  the  heart 
Of  faith  and  quiet  hope,  and  all  that  soothes 
And  all  that  lifts  the  spirit !     Stand  we  forth ; 
Render  them  back  upon  the  insulted  ocean, 
And  let  them  toss  as  idly  011  its  waves 
As  the  vile  sea-weed,  which  some  mountain-blast 
Swept  from  our  shores  !    And  oh  !  may  we  return 
Not  with  a  drunken  triumph,  but  with  fear, 
Repenting  of  the  wrongs  with  which  we  stung 
So  fierce  a  foe  to  frenzy ! 

I  have  told, 
O  Britons  !  O  nay  brethren  !  I  have  told 

£ 


98  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Most  bitter  truth,  but  without  bitterness. 

Nor  deem  my  zeal  or  factious  or  mis-timed  ; 

For  never  can  true  courage  dwell  with  them, 

Who,  playing  tricks  with  conscience,  dare  not  look 

At  their  own  vices.     We  have  been  too  long 

Dupes  of  a  deep  delusion !    Some,  belike, 

Groaning  with  restless  enmity,  expect 

All  change  from  change  of  constituted  power ; 

As  if  a  Government  had  been  a  robe, 

On  which  our  vice  and  wretchedness  were  tagged 

Like  fancy-points  and  fringes,  with  the  robe 

Pulled  off  at  pleasure.    Fondly  these  attach 

A  radical  causation  to  a  few 

Poor  drudges  of  chastising  Providence, 

Who  borrow  all  their  hues  and  qualities 

From  our  own  folly  and  rank  wickedness, 

Which    gave    them    birth    and    nursed  them.    Others, 

meanwhile, 

Dote  with  a  mad  idolatry  ;  and  all 
Wbo  will  not  fall  before  their  images, 
And  yield  them  worship,  they  are  enemies 
Even  of  their  country  ! 

Such  have  I  been  deemed — 
But,  O  dear  Britain !  O  my  Mother  Isle  ! 
Needs  must  thou  prove  a  name  most  dear  and  holy 
To  me,  a  son,  a  brother,  and  a  friend, 
A  husband,  and  a  father!  who  revere 
All  bonds  of  natural  love,  and  find  them  all 
Within  the  limits  of  thy  rocky  shores. 

0  native  Britain!  O  my  Mother  Isle  ! 

How  shouldst  thou  prove  aught  else  but  dear  and  holy 

To  me,  who  from  thy  lakes  and  mountain-hills, 

Thy  clouds,  thy  quiet  dales,  thy  rocks  and  seas, 

Have  drunk  in  all  my  intellectual  life, 

All  sweet  sensations,  all  ennobling  thoughts, 

All  adoration  of  the  God  in  Nature, 

All  lovely  and  all  honourable  things, 

Whatever  makes  this  mortal  spirit  feel 

The  joy  and  greatness  of  its  future  being  T 

There  lives  nor  form  nor  feeling  in  my  soul 

Unborrowed  from  my  country.    O  divine 

And  beauteous  island!  thou  hast  been  my  solo 

And  most  magnificent  temple,  in  the  which 

1  walk  with  awe,  and  sing  my  stately  songs, 
Loving  the  God  that  made  me ! 

May  my  fears, 

My  filial  fears,  be  vain  !  and  may  the  vaunts 
And  menance  of  the  vengeful  enemy 
Pass  like  the  gust,  that  roared  and  died  away 
In  the  distant  tree  :  which  heard,  and  oaly  heard 
In  this  low  dell,  bowed  not  the  delicate  grass. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


99 


But  now  the  gentle  dew-fall  sends  abroad 
The  fruit-like  perfume  of  the  golden  furze  : 
The  light  has  left  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
Though  still  a  sunny  gleam  lies  beautiful, 
Aslant  the  ivied  beacon.    Now  farewell, 
Farewell,  awhile,  O  soft  and  silent  spot! 
On  the  green  sheep-track,  up  the  heathy  hill, 
Homeward  I  wind  my  way ;  and  lo  !  recalled 
From  bodings  that  have  well  nigh  wearied  me, 
I  find  myself  upon  the  brow,  and  pause 
Startled !    And  after  lonely  sojourniug 
In  such  a  quiet  and  surrounded  nook, 
This  burst  of  prospect,  here  the  shadowy  Main, 
Dim  tinted,  there  the  mighty  majesty 
Of  that  huge  amphitheatre  of  rich 
And  elmy  Fields,  seems  like  society — 
Conversing  with  the  mind,  and  giving  it 
A  livelier  impulse  and  a  dance  of  thought ! 
And  now,  beloved  Stowey !  I  behold 
Thy  church-tower,  and,  methinks,  the  four  huge  elms 
Clustering,  which  mark  the  mansion  of  my  friend  ; 
And  close  behind  them,  hidden  from  my  view, 
Is  my  own  lowly  cottage,  where  my  babe 
And  my  babe's  mother  dwell  in  peace  !    With  light 
And  quickened  footsteps  thitherward  I  tend, 
Remembering  thee,  O  green  and  silent  dell! 
And  grateful,  that  by  nature's  quietness 
And  solitary  musings,  all  my  heart 
Is  softened,  and  made  worthy  to  indulge 
Love,  and  the  thoughts  that  yearn  for  human  kind. 
Nether  Stowey,  April  28,  1798. 


FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER. 

A  WAR  ECLOGUE. 


APOLOGETIC    PREFACE. 

AT  the  house  of  a  gentleman,  who  by  the  principles  and  corre- 
sponding virtues  of  a  sincere  Christian  consecrates  a  cultivated 
genius  and  the  favourable  accidents  of  birth,  opulence,  and  splen- 
did connexions,  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  meet,  in  a  dinner-party, 
with  more  men  of  celebrity  in  science  or  polite  literature,  than  are 
commonly  found  collected  round  the  same  table.  In  the  course  of 
conversation,  one  of  the  party  reminded  an  illustrious  Poet,  then 
present,  of  some  verses  which  he  had  recited  that  morning,  and 
which  had  appeared  in  a  newspaper  under  the  name  of  a  War 
Eclogue,  in  which  Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter,  were  introduced  as 
the  speakers.  The  gentleman  so  addressed  replied,  that  he  was 
rather  surprised  that  none  of  us  should  have  noticed  or  heard  of  the 
poem,  as  it  had  been,  at  the  time,  a  good  deal  talked  of  in  Scotland. 
It  may  be  easily  supposed,  that  my  feelings  were  at  this  moment 
not  of  the  mo^t  comfortable  kind.  '  Of  all  present,  one  only  knew, 
or  suspected  me  to  be  the  author;  a  man  who  would  have  estab- 
lished himself  in  the  first  rank  of  England's  living  Poets,  if  the 


100  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Genius  of  our  country  had  not  decreed  that  he  should  rather  be 
the  first  in  the  first  rank  of  its  Philosophers  and  scientific  Benefac- 
tors. It  appeared  the  general  wish  to  hear  the  lines.  As  my  friend 
chose  to  remain  silent,  I  chose  to  follow  his  example,  and  Mr.  ***** 
recited  the  Poem.  This  he  could  do  with  the  better  grace,  being 
known  to  have  ever  been  not  only  a  firm  and  active  Anti-  Jacobin 
and  Anti-Gallican,  but  likewise  a  zealous  admirer  of  Mr.  Put,  both 
as  a  good  man  and  a  great  Statesman.  As  a  Poet  exclusively,  he 
had  been  amused  with  the  Eclogue;  as  a  Poet,  he  recited  it;  and  in 
a  spirit,  which  made  it  evident,  that  he  would  have  read  and 
repeated  it  with  the  same  pleasure,  had  his  own  name  been  attached 
to  the  imaginary  object  or  agent. 

After  the  recitation,  our  amiable  host  observed,  that  in  his 
opinion  Mr.  *****  had  over-rated  the  merits  of  the  poetry;  but  had 
they  been  tenfold  greater,  they  could  not  have  compensated  for 
that  malignity  of  heart,  which  could  alone  have  prompted  senti- 
ments so  atrocious.  I  perceived  that  my  illustrious  friend  became 
greatly  distressed  on  my  account;  but  fortunately  I  was  able  to 
preserve  fortitude  and  presence  of  mind  enough  to  take  up  the 
subject  without  exciting  even  a  suspicion,  how  nearly  and  painfully 
it  interested  me. 

What  follows,  is  substantially  the  same  as  I  then  replied,  but 
dilated  and  in  language  less  colloquial.  It  was  not  my  intention,  I 
said,  to  justify  the  publication,  whatever  its  author's  feelings  might 
have  been  at  the  time  of  composing  it.  That  they  are  calculated  to 
call  forth  so  severe  a  reprobation  from  a  good  man,  is  not  the 
worst  feature  of  such  poems.  Their  moral  deformity  is  aggravated 
in  proportion  to  the  pleasure  which  they  are  capable  of  affording 
to  vindictive,  turbulent,  and  unprincipled  readers.  Could  it  be 
supposed,  thougn  for  a  moment,  that  the  author  seriously  wished 
what  he  has  thus  wildly  imagined,  even  the  attempt  to  palliate  an 
inhumanity  so  monstrous  would  be  an  insult  to  the  hearers.  But 
it  seemed  to  me  worthy  of  consideration,  whether  the  mood  of 
mind,  and  the  general  state  oifcensations,  in  which  a  Poet  produces 
such  vivid  and  fantastic  images,  is  likely  to  co-exist,  or  is  even  com- 
patible with,  that  gloomy  and  deliberate  ferocity  which  a  serious 
wish  to  realize  them  would  pre-suppose.  It  had  been  often  observed, 
and  all  my  experience  tended  to  confirm  the  observation,  that 
prospects  of  pain  and  evil  to  others,  and  in  general,  all  deep  feel- 
ings of  revenge,  are  commonly  expressed  in  a  few  words,  ironically 
tame,  and  mild.  The  mind  under  so  direful  and  fiend-like  an 
influence  seems  to  take  a  morbid  pleasure  in  contrasting  the 
intensity  of  its  wishes  and  feelings,  with  the  slightness  or  levity  of 
the  expressions  by  which  they  are  hinted;  and  indeed  feeling's  so 
intense  and  solitary,  if  they  were  not  precluded  (as  in  almost  all 
cases  they  would  be,)  by  a  constitutional  activity  of  fancy  and  asso- 
ciation, and  by  the  specific  joyousness  combined  with  it,  would 
assuredly  themselves  preclude  such  activity.  Passion,  in  its  own 
quality,  is  the  antagonist  of  action  ;  though  in  an  ordinary  and 
natural  degree  tho  former  alternates  with  the  latter,  and  thereby 
revives  and  strengthens  it.  But  the  more  intense  and  insane  the 
passion  is,  the  fewer  and  the  more  fixed  are  the  correspondent 
forms  and  notions.  A  rooted  hatred,  an  inveterate  thirst  of 
revenge,  is  a  sort  of  madness,  and  still  eddies  round  its  favorite 
object,  and  exercises  as  it  were  a  perpetual  tautology  of  mind  in 
thoughts  and  words,  which  admit  of  no  adequate  substitutes.  Like 
a  fish  in  a  globe  of  glass,  it  moves  restlessly  round  and  round  the 
scanty  circumference,  which  it  cannot  leave  without  losing  its  vital 
element. 

There  is  a  second  character  of  such  imaginary  representations  as 
spring  from  a  real  and  earnest  desire  of  evil  to  another,  which  we 
often  see  in  real  life,  and  might  even  anticipate  from  the  natu.  «•  of 
the  mind.  The  images,  I  mean,  that  a  vindictive  man  places  before 
his  imagination,  will  most  often  be  taken  from  the  realities  of  life  : 
they  will  be  images  of  pain  and  suffering  which  he  has  himself  seen 
inflicted  on  other  uieu,  and  \\  hich  he  can  fancy  himself  as  inflicting 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  101 

on  the  object  of  his  hatred.    I  will  suppose  that  we  had  heard  at 
different  times  two  common  sailors,  each  speaking  of  some  one  who 
had  wronged  or  offended  him;  that  the  first  with  apparent  violence 
had  devoted  every  part  of  his  adversary's  body  and  soul  to  all  the 
horrid  phantoms  and  fantastic  places  that  ever  Quevedo  dreamt  of, 
and  this  in  a  rapid  flow  of  those  outre  and  wildly  combined  execra- 
tions, which  too  often  with  our  lower  classes  serve  for  escoyp-?- wives 
to  carry  off  the  excess  of  their  passions,  as  so  'mucH'.^uaer'flnous 
steam  that  would  endanger  the  vessel  if  it  were  re'tanmfc'!  The  other 
on  the  contrary,  with  that  sort  of  calmness  of  tone  which  is  to  the 
ear  what  the  paleness  of  anger  is  to  the  eye,  shall  simply  say,  "'  If  I. 
chance  to  be  made  boatswain,  as  I  hope  I  soun  gR^Jl,,  and  can  bift  • 
once  get  that  fellow  under  my  hand  (and  I  shall"  be  u'po/rthe'  watch' 
for  him,)  I'll  tickle  his  pretty  skin  !  I  won't  hurt  him  !  oh  no  !  I'll 

only   cut   the to   the    liver!"    I  dare  appeal   to   all 

present,  which  of  the  two  they  would  regard  as  the  least 
deceptive  symptom  of  deliberate  malignity?  nay,  whether  it  would 
surprise  them  to  see  the  first  fellow,  an  hour  or  two  afterward, 
cordially  shaking  hands  with  the  very  man,  the  fractional  parts  of 
whose  body  and  soul  he  had  been  so  charitably  disposing  of;  or 
even  perhaps  risking  his  life  for  him.  What  language  Shakspeare 
considered  characteristic  of  malignant  disposition,  we  see  in  the 
speech  of  the  good-natured  Gratiano,  who  spoke  "an  infinite  deal 
of  nothing  more  than  any  man  in  all  Venice;" 

"Too  wild,  too  rude  and  bold  of  voice!" 

the  skipping  spirit,  whose  thoughts  and  words  reciprocally  ran 
away  with  each  other; 

"  O  be  thou  damn'd,  inexorable  dog! 

And  for  thy  life  let  justice  be  accused!" 

and  the  wild  fancies  that  follow,  contrasted  with  Shylock's  tranquil 
"  /  stand  here  for  Law. ' ' 

Or,  to  take  a  case  more  analogous  to  the  present  subject,  should 
we  hold  it  either  fair  or  charitable  to  believe  it  to  have  been  Dante's 
serious  wish,  that  all  the  persons  mentioned  by  him,  (many  recently 
departed,  and  some  even  alive  at  the  time,)  should  actually  suffer 
the  fantastic  and  horrible  punishments,  to  which  he  has  sentenced 
them  in  his  Hell  and  Purgatory?  Or  what  shall  we  say  of  the 
passages  in  which  Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor  anticipates  the  state  of 
those  who,  vicious  themselves,  have  been  the  cause  of  vice  and 
misery  to  their  fellow-creatures.  Could  we  endure  for  a  moment  to 
think  that  a  spirit,  like  Bishop  Taylor's,  burning  with  Christian  love; 
that  a  man  constitutionally  overflowing  with  pleasurable  kindliness; 
who  scarcely  even  in  a  casual  illustration  introduces  the  image  of 
woman,  child,  or  bird,  but  he  embalms  the  thought  with  so  rich  a 
tenderness,  as  makes  the  very  words  seem  beauties  and  fragments 
of  poetry  from  an  Euripides  or  Simonides; — can  we  endure  to  think, 
that  a  man  so  natured  and  so  disciplined,  did  at  the  time  ot  com- 
posing this  horrible  picture,  attach  a  sober  feeling  of  reality  to  the 
phrases?  or  that  he  would  have  described  in  the  same  tone  of  justi- 
fication, in  the  same  luxuriant  flow  of  phrases,  the  tortures  about  to 
be  inflicted  on  a  living  individual  by  a  verdict  of  the  Star-Chamber? 
or  the  still  more  atrocious  sentences  executed  on  the  Scotch  anti- 
prelatists  and  schismatics,  at  the  command,  and  in  some  instances 
under  the  very  eye  of  the  Duke  of  Lauderdale.  a-ul  of  that  wretched 
bigot  who  afterwards  dishonoured  and  forfeited  the  throne  of  Great 
Britain?  Or  do  we  not  rather  feel  and  understand,  that  these  violent 
words  were  mere  bubbles,  flashes  and  electrical  apparitions,  from 
the  magic  cauldron  of  a  fervid  and  ebullient  fancy,  constantly  fuelled 
by  an  unexampled  opulence  of  language? 

Were  I  now  to  have  read  by  myself  for  the  first  time  the  Poem  in 
question,  my  conclusion.  I  fully  believe,  would  be,  that  the  writer 
must  have  been  some  man  of  warm  feelings  and  active  fancy;  that 
he  had  painted  to  himself  the  circumstances  that  accompany  war 


102  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

in  so  many  vivid  and  yet  fantastic  forms,  as  proved  tha*;  neither  the 
images  nor  the  feelings  were  the  result  of  observation,  or  in  any 
way  derived  from  realities.  I  should  judge,  that  they  were  the 
product  of  his  own  seething  imagination,  and  therefore  impregnated 
with  that  pleasurable  exultation  which  is  experienced  in  all  energetic 
exertion  of  intellectual  power;  that  in  the  same  mood  he  had 
generalized  the  causes  of  the  war,  and  then  personified  the  abstract 
and>hris\eie;i  it  b,y  the  name  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
hear  fi.o£t  ««f  cJn  associated  with  its  management  and  measures.  I 
should  guess  that  the  minister  was  in  the  author's  mind  at  the 
•mci?!^*  .of  .  composition,  as  completely  anaO^,  ami/u.6o-ap/cos,  as 
Ana^rion  s  grasshopper,  and  that  he  had  as  little  notion  of  a  real 
pe-*son  of  fies-jvarifl  tilood, 

"Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb," 

as  Milton  had  in  the  grim  and  terrible  phantoms  (half  person,  halj 
allegory)  which  he  has  placed  at  the  gates  of  Hell.  I  concluded  by 
observing,  that  the  Poem  was  not  calculated  to  excite  passion  in  any 
mind,  or  to  make  any  impression  except  on  poetic  readers;  and  that 
from  the  culpable  levity,  betrayed  at  the  close  of  the  Eclogue  by 
the  grotesque  union  of  epigrammatic  wit  with  allegoric  personifica- 
tion, in  the  allusion  to  the  most  fearful  of  thoughts,  I  should  con- 
jecture that  the  "  rantin'  Bardie,"  instead  of  really  believing,  much 
less  wishing,  the  fate  spoken-of  in  the  last  line,  in  application  to 
any  human  individual,  would  shrink  from  passing  the  verdict  even 
on  the  Devil  himself,  and  exclaim  with  poor  Burns, 

But  fare  ye  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben ! 
Oh!  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men! 
Ye  aiblins  might— I  dinna  ken—  , 

Still  hae  a  stake— 
I'm  wae  to  think  upon  yon  den, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake! 

I  need  not  say  that  these  thoughts,  which  are  hero  dilated,  were 
in  such  a  company  only  rapidly  suggested.  Our  kind  host  smiled, 
and  with  a  courteous  compliment  observed,  that  the  defence  was 
too  good  for  the  cause.  My  voice  faltered  a  little,  for  I  was  some- 
what agitated;  though  not  so  much  on  my  own  account  as  for  the 
uneasiness  that  so  kind  and  friendly  a  man  would  feel  from  the 
thought  that  he  had  been  the  occasion  of  distressing  me.  At  length 
I  brought  out  these  words:  "I  must  now  confess,  Sir!  that  lam 
author  of  that  Poem.  It  was  written  some  years  ago.  I  do  not 
attempt  to  justify  my  past  self ,  young  as  I  then  was;  but  as  little 
as  I  would  now  write  a  similar  poem,  so  far  was  I  even  then  from 
imagining,  that  the  lines  would  ue  taken  as  more  or  less  than  a  sport 
of  fancy.  At  all  events,  if  I  know  my  own  heart,  there  was  never  a 
moment  in  my  existence  in  which  I  should  have  been  more  ready, 
had  Mr.  Pitt's  person  been  in  hazard,  to  interpose  my  own  body,  aud 
defend  his  life  at  the  risk  of  my  own." 

I  have  prefaced  the  Poem  with  this  anecdote,  because  to  have 
printed  it  without  any  remark  might  well  have  been  understood  as 
implying  an  unconditional  approbation  on  my  part,  and  this  after 
many  years  consideration .  But  if  it  be  asked  why  I  re-published  it 
at  all?  I  answer,  that  the  Poem  had  been  attributed  at  different 
times  to  different  other  persons;  and  what  I  had  dared  bepet,  I 
thought  it  neither  manly  nor  honourable  not  to  dare  father  From 
the  same  motives  I  should  have  published  perfect  copies  of  two 
Poems,  the  one  entitled  The  DeviVs  Ttiouqhts,  and  the  other  The  Two 
Round  Spaces  on  the  Tomb-Stone,  but  that  the  three  first  stanzas 
of  the  former,  which  were  worth  all  the  rest  of  the  poem,  and  the 
best  stanza  of  the  remainder,  were  written  by  a  friend  of  deserved 
celebrity;  and  because  there  are  passages  in  both,  which  might 
have  given  offence  to  the  religious  feelings  of  certain  readers.  I 
myself  indeed  see  no  reason  why  vulgar  superstitions,  and  absurd 
conceptions  that  deform  the  pure  faith  of  a  Christian,  should  possess 
a  greater  immunity  from  ridicule  than  stories  of  witches,  or  the 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  103 

fables  of  Greece  and  Rome.  But  there  are  those  who  deem  it 
profaneness  and  irreverence  to  call  an  ape  an  ape,  if  it  but  wear  a 
monk's  cowl  on  its  head;  and  I  would  rather  reason  with  this 
Weakness  than  offend  it. 

The  passage  from  Jeremy  Taylor  to  which  I  referred,  is  found  in 
his  second  Sermon  on  Christ's  Advent  to  Judgment;  which  is  like- 
wise the  second  in  his  year's  course  of  sermons.  Among  many 
remarkable  passages  of  the  same  character  in  those  discourses,  I 
have  selected  this  as  the  most  so.  "  But  when  this  Lion  of  the  tribe 
"  of  Judah  shall  appear,  then  Justice  shall  strike  and  Mercy  shall 
"not  hold  her  hands;  she  shall  strike  sore  strokes,  and  Pity  shall 
'  not  break  the  bio  vv.  As  there  are  treasures  of  good  things,  so  hath 
'  God  a  treasure  of  wrath  and  fury,  and  scourges  and  scorpions; 
'and  then  shall  be  produced  the  shame  of  Lust  and  the  malice  or 
'  Envy,  and  the  groans  of  the  oppressed  and  the  persecutions  of  the 
4  saints,  and  the  cares  of  Covetousness  and  the  troubles  of  Ambi- 
'  tion,  and  the  insolences  of  traitors  and  the  violences  of  rebels,  and 
'the  rage  of  anger  and  the  uneasiness  of  impatience,  and  the  rest- 
'lessness  of  unlawful  desires;  and  by  this  time  the  monsters  and 
'  diseases  will  be  numerous  and  intolerable,  when.  God's  heavy  hand 
'  shall  press  the  sanies  and  the  intolerableness,  the  obliquity  and 
'the  unreasonableness,  the  amazement  and  the  disorder,  the  smart 
'  and  the  sorrow,  the  guilt  and  the  punishment,  out  from  all  our  sins, 
'  and  pour  them  into  one  chalice,  and  mir/g'e  them  with  an  infinite 
'  wrath,  and  make  the  wicked  drink  off  all  the  vengeance,  and  force 
'  it  down  their  unwilling  throats  with  the  violence  of  devils  and 
"accursed  spirits." 

That  this  Tartarean  drench  displays  the  imagination  rather  than 
the  discretion  of  the  compounder;  that,  in  short,  this  passage 
and  others  of  the  same  kind  are  in  a  bad  taste,  few  will  deny  at 
the  present  day.  It  would  doubtless  have  more  behoved  the 
good  bishop  not  to  be  wise  beyond  what  is  written,  on  a  sub- 
ject in  which  Eternity  is  opposed  to  Time,  and  a  death 
threatened,  not  the  negative,  but  the  positive  Oppositive  of  Life; 
a  subject,  therefore,  which  must  of  necessity  be  indescribable 
to  the  human  understanding  in  our  present  state.  But  I  can 
neither  find  nor  believe,  that  it  ever  occurred  to  any  reader  to 
ground  on  such  passages  a  charge  against  BISHOP  TAYLOR'S  human- 
ity, or  goodness  of  heart.  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  therefore  to 
find,  in  the  Pursuits  of  Literature  and  other  works,  so  horrible  a  sen- 
tence passed  on  MILTON'S  moral  character,  for  a  passage  in  his 
prose- writings,  as  nearly  parallel  to  this  of  Taylor's  as  two  passages 
can  well  be  conceived  to  be.  All  his  merits,  as  a  poet,  forsooth — all 
thegiory  of  having  written  the  PARADISE  LOST,  are  light  in  the  scale, 
nay,  kick  the  beam,  compared  with  the  atrocious  malignity  of  heart 
expressed  in  the  offensive  paragraph.  I  remembered,  in  general, 
that  Milton  had  concluded  one  of  his  works  on  Reformation,  written 
in  the  fervour  of  his  youthful  imagination,  in  a  high  poetic  strain, 
that  wanted  metre  only  to  become  a  lyrical  poem.  I  remembered 
that  in  the  former  part  he  had  formed  to  himself  a  perfect  ideal  of 
human  virtue,  a  character  of  heroic,  disinterested  zeal  and  devotion 
for  Truth,  Religion,  and  public  Liberty,  in  Act  and  in  Suffering,  in 
the  day  oC  Triumph  and  in  the  hour  of  Martyrdom.  Such  spirits, 
as  more  excellent  than  others,  he  describes  as  having  a  more  ex- 
cellent reward,  and  as  distinguished  by  a  transcendent  glory:  and 
this  reward  and  this  glory  he  displays  and  particularizes  with  an 
energy  and  brilliance  that  announced  the  Paradise  Lost  as  plainly, 
as  ever  the  bright  purple  clouds  in  the  east  announced  the  coming 
of  the  Sun.  Milton  then  passesto  the  gloomy  contrast,  to  such  men 
as  from  selfish  ambition  and  the  lust  of  personal  aggrandizement 
should,  against  their  own  light,  persecute  truth  and  the  true  religion, 
and  wilfully  abuse  the  powers  and  gifts  entrusted  to  them,  to  bring 
vice,  blindness,  misery  and  slavery,  on  their  native  country,  on  the 
very  country  that  had  trusted,  enriched,  and  honored  them.  Such 
beings,  after  that  speedy  and  appropriate  removal  from  their  sphere 
of  mischief  which  all  good  and  humane  men  must  of  course  desire, 


104  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

will,he  takos  for  granted  by  parity  of  reason,  meet  with  a  punishment, 
an  ignominy,  and  a  retaliation,  as  much  severer  than  other  wicked 
men,  as  their  guilt  find  its  consequences  were  more  enormous.  His 
description  of  this  imaginary  punishment  presents  more  distinct  pic- 
tures to  the  fancy  than  the  extract  from  Jeremy  Taylor,  but  the 
thoughts  in  the  latter  are  incomparably  more  exaggerated  and  hor- 
rific. All  this  I  knew;  but  I  neither  remembered,  nor  by  reference  and 
careful  re-perusal  could  discover,  any  other  meaning,  either  in  Mil- 
ton cr  Taylor,  but  that  good  men  will  be  rewarded,  and  the  impeni- 
tent wicked  punished,  in  pr.>portiori  to  their  dispositions  and  inten- 
tional acts  in  this  life ;  and  that  if  the  punishment  of  the  least  wicked 
be  fearful  beyond  conception,  all  words  and  descriptions  must  be  so 
far  true,  that  they  must  fall  short  of  the  punishment  that  awaits  the 
transcendency  wicked.  Had  Milton  stated  either  his  ideal  of  virtue, 
or  of  depravity,  as  an  individual  or  individuals  actually  existing? 
Certainly  not!  Is  this  representation  worded  historically,  or  only 
hypothetically  ?  Assuredly  the  latter !  Does  he  express  it  as  his  own 
wish,  that  after  death  they  should  suffer  these  tortures?  or  as  a  gen- 
eral consequence,  deduced  from  reason  and  revelation,  that -such 
willbe  their  fate?  Again,  the  latter  only!  His  wish  is  expressly 
confined  to  a  speedy  stop  being  put  by  Providence  to  their  power 
of  inflicting  misery  on  others!  But  did  he  name  or  refer  to  any  per- 
sons, living  or  dead?  No!  But  the  caluinniat  «rs  of  Milton  dare  say 
(for  what  will  calumny  not  dare  say'")  that  he  had  LACD  and  STAF- 
FORD in  his  mind,  while  writing  of  remorseless  persecution,  and  the 
enslavement  of  a  free  country,  from  motives  of  selfish  ambition. 
Now,  what  if  a  stern  anti-prelatist  should  dare  say,  that  in  speaking 
of  the  insolencics  of  traitors  and  the  violences  of  rebels,  Bishop 
Taylor  must  have  individualized  in  his  mind,  HAMDEN,  HOLLIS,  TYM, 
FAIRFAX,  IRETON,  and  MILTON?  And  what  if  he  should  take  the 
liberty  of  concluding,  that,  in  the  after  description,  the  Bishop  was 
feeding  and  feasting  his  party-hatred,  and  with  those  individuals 
before  the  eyes  of  his  imagination  en j oy ing,  trait  by  trait,  horror 
after  horror,  the  picture  of  t^eir  intolerable  agonies?  Yetthis  Bigot 
would  have  an  equal  right  thus  to  criminate  the  one  good  and  great 
man,  as  these  men  have  to  criminate  the  other.  Milton  has  said, 
and  I  doubt  not  but  that  Taylor  with  equal  truth  could  have  said 
it,  "that  in  his  whole  life  he  never  spake  against  a  man  even 
that  his  skin  should  be  grazed."  He  asserted  this  when  one  of  his 
opponents  (either  Bishop  Hall  or  his  nephew)  had  called  upon  the 
women  and  children  in  the  streets  to  take  up  stones  and  stone  him 
(Milton).  It  is  known  that  Milton  repeatedly  used  his  interest  to  pro- 
tect the  royalists;  but  even  at  a  time  when  all  lies  would  have  been 
meritorious  against  him,  no  charge  was  made,  no stoiy  pretended, 
that  he  had  ever  directly  or  indirectly  engaged  or  assisted  in  their 
persecution.  Oh!  methinks  there  aro other  and  far  befer  feelings, 
which  should  be  acquired  by  the  perusal  of  our  great  elder  writers. 
When  I  have  before  me  on  the  same  table,  the  works  of  Hammond 
and  Baxter;  when  I  reflect  with  what  joy  and  deurm -ss  ih.-ir 
blessed  spirits  are  now  loving  each  other:  it  seems  a  mournful  thing 
that  their  names  should  be  perverted  to  an  occasion  of  bitterness 
among  us,  who  are  enjoying  that  happy  mean  which  the  hnman  TOO- 
MUCH  on  both  sides  was  perhaps  necessary  to  produce.  "  The  tanglo 
of  delusions  which  stilled  and  distorted  the  growing  tree  of  our  well- 
being  has  been  torn  away;  the  parasite- weeds  that  fed  on  its  very 
roots  have  been  plucked  up  with  a  salutary  violence.  To  us  there 
remain  only  qui-t  duties,  the  constant  care,  the  gradual  improve 
ment,  the  cautious  unhazardous  labours  of  the  industrious  though 
contented  gardener— to  prune,  to  strengthen,  to  engraft,  and  one 
by  one  to  remove  from  its  leaves  and  fresh  shoots  the  slug  and  the 
caterpillar.  But  far  be  it  from  us  to  undervalue  with  light  and  sense- 
less detraction  the  conscientious  hardihood  of  our  predecessors,  or 
even  to  condemn  in  them  that  vehemence,  to  which  the  blessings  it 
won  for  us  leave  us  now  neither  temptation  nor  pretext.  We  ante- 
date the  feelings,  in  order  to  criminate  the  authors,  of  our  present 
Liberty,  Light  and  Toleration."  (THE  FRIEND,  p.  54.) 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  105 

If  ever  two  great  men  might  seem,  during  their  wholo  lives,  to 
have  moved  in  direct  opposition,  though  neither  of  ihem  lias  at  any 
time  introduced  the  name  of  the  other,  Milton  and  Jeremy  Taylor 
were  they.  The  former  commenced  his  career  by  attacking  tho 
Church-Liturgy  and  all  set  forms  of  prayer.  Tho  latter,  but  far 
more  successfully,  by  def endir g  both.  Milton's  next  work  was  then 
against  the  Prelacy  and  the  then  existing  Church-Government— Tay- 
lor's, in  vindication  and  support  of  them.  Milton  became  more  and 
more  a  stern  republican,  or  rather  an  advocate  for  that  religious  and 
moral  aristocracy  which,  in  his  day,  was  called  republicanism,  and 
which,  even  more  than  royalism  itself,  is  the  direct  antipode  of 
modern  jacobinism.  Taylor,  as  more  ard  more  sceptical  concerning 
the  fitness  of  men  in  general  for  power,  became  more  and  more 
attached  to  the  prerogatives  of  monarchy.  From  Calvinism,  with  a 
still  decreasing  respect  for  Fathers,  Councils,  and  for  Church- An- 
tiquity in  general,  Milton  seems  to  have  ended  in  an  indifference,  if 
not  a  dislike,  to  all  forms  of  ecclesiatic  government,  and  to  have 
retreated  wholly  into  the  inward  and  spiritual  church-communion 
of  his  own  spirit  with  tlie  Light,  that  lighteth.  every  man  that 
cometh  into  the  world.  Taylor,  with  a  growing  reverence  for  author- 
ity, an  increasing  sense  of  the  insufficiency  of  the  Scriptures  with- 
out the  aids  of  tradition  and  the  consent  of  authorized  interpreters, 
advanced  as  far  in  his  approaches  (not  indeed  to  Popery,  but)  to 
Catholicism,  as  a  conscientious  minister  of  the  English  Church 
could  well  venture.  Milton  would  be,  and  would  utter  the  same,  to 
all,  on  all  occasions:  he  would  tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth.  Taylor  would  become  all  things  to  all  men, 
if  by  any  means  he  might  benefit  any;  hence  he  availed  himself,  in 
his  popular  writings,  of  opinions  and  representations  which  stand 
often  in  scriking  contrast  with  the  doubts  and  convictions  expressed 
in  his  more  philosophical  works.  lie  appears,  indeed,  not  too  severely 
to  have  blamed  the  management  of  truth  (istam  falsitatem  dispensa 
tivam)  authorized  and  exemplified  by  almost  all  the  fathers:  Integ- 
rum  omKino  Doctoribusetccetus  Christian i  An tistitibus  esse.  ut  dolos 
versent,  fal  a  veris  intermisceant  et  imprimis  religipnis  hostes  fal- 
lant,  dummodo  veritatis  commodis  et  utilitati  inserviant. 

The  same  antithesis  might  be  carried  on  with  the  elements  of 
their  several  intellectual  powers.  Milton,  austere,  condensed,  im- 
aginative, supporting  his  truth  by  direct  enunciation  of  lofty  moral 
sentiment  and  by  distinct  visual  representations,  and  in  the  same 
spirit  overwhelming  what  he  deemed  falsehood  by  moral  denuncia- 
tion and  a  succession  of  pictures  appalling  or  repulsive.  In  his 
prose,  so  many  metaphors,  so  many  allegorical  miniatures.  Taylor, 
eminently  discursive,  accumulative,  and  (to  use  one  of  his  own  words) 
agglomefative;  still  more  rich  in  images  than  Milton  1  imself ,  but 
images  of  Fancy,  and  presented  to  the  common  and  passive  eye, 
rather  than  to  the  eye  of  the  imagination.  Whether  supporting  or 
assailing,  he  makes  his  way  either  by  argument  or  by  appeals  to  the 
affections,  unsurpassed  even  by  the  Schoolmen  in  subtlety,  agility 
and  logic  wit,  and  unrivalled  by  the  most  rhetorical  of  the  fathers 
in  the  copiousness  and  vividness  of  his  expressions  and  illustrations. 
Here  words  that  convey  feelings,  and  words  that  flash  images,  an'l 
words  of  abstract  notion,  flow  together,  and  at  once  whirl  and  rush 
onward  like  a  stream,  at  oice  rapid  and  full  of  eddies;  and  yet  still 
interfused  here  and  there,  we  see  a  tongue  or  isle  of  smooth  water, 
with  some  picture  in  it  of  earth  or  sky,  landscape  or  living  group  of 
quiet  beauty. 

Differing,  ihen,  so  widely,  and  almost  contrrriantly,  wherein  did 
these  great  men  agree?  wherein  did  they  resemble  each  other? 
In  Genius,  in  Learning,  in  unfeigned  Piety,  in  blameless  Purity  of 
Life,  and  in  benevolent  aspirations  and  purposes  for  the  moral  and 
temporal  improvement  of  their  fellow-creatures!  Both  of  them 
wrote  a  Latin  Accidence,  to  render  education  more  easy  and  less 
painful  to  children  ;  both  of  them  composed  hymns  and  psalms 
proportioned  to  the  capacity  of  common  congregations  :  both, 
nearly  at  the  same  time,  set  the  glorious  example  of  publicly  re- 

E* 


106  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

commending  and  supporting  general  Toleration,  and  the  Liberty 
both  of  the  Pulpit  and  the  Press  !  In  the  writings  of  neither  shall 
we  find  a  single  sentence,  like  those  meek  deliverances  to  God's 
mercy,  with  which  LAUD  accompanied  his  votes  for  the  mutilations 
and  loathsome  dungeoning  of  Leighton  and  others  ! — no  where  such 
a  pious  prayer  as  we  find  in  Bishop  Hall's  memoranda  of  his  own 
Life,  concerning  the  subtle  and  witty  Atheist  that  so  grievously 
perplexed  and  gravelled  him  at  Sir  Robert  Drury's  till  he  prayed 
to  the  Lord  to  remove  him,  and  behold  !  his  prayers  were  heard  ; 
for  shortly  afterwards  this  philistine-combatant  went  to  London, 
and  there  perished  of  the  plague  in  great  misery  !  In  short,  no 
where  shall  we  find  the  least  approach,  in  the  lives  and  writings 
of  John  Milton  or  Jeremy  Taylor,  to  that  guarded  gentleness,  to 
that  sighing  reluctance,  with  which  the  holy  Brethren  of  the  In- 
quisition deliver  over  a  condemned  heretic  to  the  civil  magistrate, 
recommending  him  to  mercy,  and  hoping  that  the  magistrate  will 
treat  the  erring  brother  with  all  possible  mildness! — the  magistrate, 
who  too  well  knows  what  would  be  his  own  fate,  if  he  dared  offend 
them  by  acting  on  their  recommendation. 

The  opportunity  of  diverting  i  he  reader  from  myself  to  characters 
more  worthy  of  his  attention,  has  led  me  far  beyond  my  first  inten- 
tion ;  but  it  is  not  unimportant  to  expose  the  false  zeal  which  has 
occasioned  these  attacks  on  our  elder  patriots.  It  has  been  too 
much  the  fashion,  first  to  personify  the  Church  of  England,  and 
then  to  speak  of  different  individuals,  who  in  different  ages  have 
been  rulers  in  that  church,  as  if  in  some  strange  way  they  consti- 
tuted its  personal  identity.  Why  should  a  clergj  man  of  the  present 
day  feel  interested  in  the  defence  of  Laud  or  Sheldon  ?  Surely  it  is 
sufficient  for  the  warmest  partizan  of  our  establishment,  that  he 
can  assert  with  truth, — when  our  Church  persecuted,  it  was  on  mis- 
taken principles  held  in  common  by  all  Christendom  ;  and  at  all 
events,  far  less  culpable  was  this  intolerance  in  the  Bishops,  who 
were  maintaining  the  existing  laws,  than  the  persecuting  spirit 
afterwards  shewn  by  their  successful  opponents,  who  had  no  such 
excuse,  and  who  should  have  been  taught  mercy  by  their  own  suf- 
ferings, and  wisdom  by  the  utter  failure  of  the  experiment  in  their 
own  case.  We  can  say,  that  our  Church,  apostolical  in  its  faith, 
primitive  in  its  ceremonies,  unequalled  in  its  liturgical  form  ;  that 
our  Church,  which  has  kindled  and  displayed  more  bright  and 
burning  lights  of  Genius  and  Learning,  than  all  other  protestant 
churches  since  the  reformation,  was  (with  the  single  exception  of 
the  times  of  Laud  and  Sheldon)  least  intolerant,  when  all  Christians 
unhappily  deemed  a  species  of  intolerance  their  religious  duty  ; 
that  Bishops  of  our  church  were  among  the  first  that  contended 
against  this  error ;  and  finally,  that  since  the  reformation,  when 
tolerance  became  a  fashion,  the  Church  of  England,  in  a  tolerating 
age,  has  shewn  herself  eminently  tolerant,  and  far  more  so.  both  in 
Spirit  and  in  Fact,  than  many  of  her  most  bitter  opponents,  who 
profess  to  deem  toleration  itself  an  insult  on  the  rights  of  mankind ! 
As  to  myself,  who  not  only  know  the  Church-Establishment  to  be 
tolerant,  but  who  see  in  it  the  greatest,  if  not  the  sole  safe  buhrark 
of  Toleration,  I  feel  no  necessity  of  defending  or  palliating  oppres- 
sions under  the  two  Charleses,  in  order  to  exclaim  with  a  full  and 
fervent  heart,  ESTO  PERPETUA  ! 


The  Scene  a  desolated  Tract  in  La  Vendee.  FAMINE  is  discovered 
lying  on  the  ground;  to  her  enter  FIRE  and  SLAUGHTER, 

FAMINE. 
SISTERS  !  sisters !  who  sent  you  here  ? 

SLAUGHTER  (to  Fire). 
I  will  whisper  it  in  her  ear. 

•a 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

FIRE. 

No!  no!  no! 

Spirits  hear  what  spirits  tell : 
'Twill  make  an  holiday  in  Hell. 

No!  no!  no! 

Myself.  I  named  him  once  below, 
And  all  the  souls,  that  damned  be, 
Leaped  up  at  once  in  anarchy, 
Clapped  their  hands  and  danced  for  glee. 
They  no  longer  heeded  me ; 
But  laughed  to  hear  Hell's  burning  rafters 
Unwillingly  re-echo  laughters ! 

No !  no !  no ! 

Spirits  hear  what  spirits  tell : 
'Twill  make  an  holiday  in  Hell ! 

FAMINE. 

Whisper  it,  sister !  so  and  so ! 
In  a  dark  hint,  soft  and  slow. 

SLAUGHTER. 

Letters  four  do  form  his  name — 
And  who  sent  you  ? 

BOTH. 

The  same !  the  same ! 
SLAUGHTER. 

He  came  by  stealth,  and  unlocked  my  den, 
And  I  have  drank  the  blood  since  then 
Of  thrice  three  hundred  thousand  men. 

BOTH. 

• 

Who  bade  you  do  't  ? 

SLAUGHTER. 

The  same !  the  same ! 
Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried  Halloo ! 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 

FAMINE. 

Thanks,  sisters,  thanks !  the  men  have  bled, 
Their  wives  and  their  children  faint  for  bread. 
I  stood  in  a  swampy  field  of  battle ; 
With  bones  and  skulls  I  made  a  rattle, 
To  frighten  the  wolf  and  carrion-crow 
And  the  homeless  dog — but  they  would  not  go. 
So  off  I  flew :  for  how  could  I  bear 
To  see  them  gorge  their  dainty  fare  ? 
I  heard  a  groan  and  a  peevish  squall, 
And  through  the  chink  of  a  cottage-wall — 
Can  you  guess  what  I  saw  there  ? 


107 


108  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

BOTH. 
Whisper  it,  sister!  in  our  ear. 

FAMINE. 

A  baby  beat  its  dying  mother : 
I  had  starved  the  one  and  was  starving  the  other ! 

BOTH. 
Who  bade  you  do  't  I 

FAMINE. 

The  same !  the  same ! 
Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried,  Halloo ! 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 

FIRE. 

Sisters !  I  from  Ireland  came ! 
Hedge  and  corn-fields  all  on  flame, 
I  triumphed  o'er  the  setting  sun ! 
And  all  the  while  the  work  was  done, 
On  as  I  strode  with  my  huge  strides, 
I  flung  back  my  head  and  I  held  my  sides, 
It  was  so  rare  a  piece  of  fun 
To  see  the  sweltered  cattle  run 
With  uncouth  gallop  through  the  night, 
Scared  by  the  red  and  noisy  light ! 
By  the  light  of  his  own  blazing  cot 
Was  many  a  naked  Rebel  shot : 
The  house-stream  met  the  flame  and  hissed, 
While  crash  !  fell  in  the  roof,  I  wist, 
On  some  of  those  old  bed-rid  nurses, 
That  deal  in  discontent  and  curses. 

BOTH. 
Who  bade  you  do  't  ? 

FIRE. 

The  same !  the  same ! 
Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried,  Halloo  ! 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 

ALL. 

He  let  us  loose,  and  cried  Halloo  ! 
How  shall  we  yield  him  honour  due  I 

FAMINE. 

Wisdom  comes  with  lack  of  food. 
I'll  gnaw,  I'll  gnaw  the  multitude, 
Till  the  cup  of  rage  o'erbrim  : 
They  shall  seize  him  and  his  brood— 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  100 

SLAUGHTER. 

They  shall  tear  him  limb  from  limb! 
FIRE. 

0  thankless  beldames  and  untrue ! 
And  is  this  all  that  you  can  do 
For  him,  who  did  so  much  for  you  ? 
Ninety  months  he,  by  my  troth ! 
Hath  richly  catered  for  yon  both  ; 
And  in  an  hour  would  you  repay 

An  eight  years'  work  ?— Away !  Away  ! 

1  alone  am  faithful !     I 
Cling  to  him  everlastingly. 

1796. 

RECANTATION. 

ILLUSTRATED  BY  THE   STORY  OF  THE  MAD  OX. 

AN  Ox,  long  fed  with  musty  hay, 

And  work'd  with  yoke  and  chain, 
Was  turn'd  out  on  an  April  day, 
When  fields  are  in  their  best  array, 
And  growing  grasses  sparkle  gay, 

At  once  with  sun  and  rain. 

The  grass  was  fine,  the  sun  was  bright, 

With  truth  I  may  aver  it, 
The  Ox  was  glad,  as  well  he  might, 
Thought  a  green  meadow  no  bad  sight, 
And  frisk'd  to  show  his  huge  delight, 

Much  like  a  beast  of  spirit. 

Stop,  neighbours !  stop !  why  these  alarms  ? 

The  Ox  is  only  glad — 
But  still  they  pour  from  cots  and  farms, 
Halloo!  the  parish  is  up  in  arms, 
(A  hoaxing  hunt  has  always  charms) 

Halloo !  the  Ox  is  mad! 

The  frighted  beast  scamper'd  about, 

Plunge!  through  the  hedge  he  drove — 

The  mob  pursue  with  hideous  rout, 

A  bull-dog  fastens  on  his  snout, 

He  gores  the  dog,  his  tongue  hangs  out — 
He's  mad,  he's  mad,  by  Jove ! 

"Stop,  neighbours,  stop !"  aloud  did  call 

A  sage  of  sober  hue. 
But  all  at  once  on  him  they  fall, 
Old  women  shriek  and  children  squall, 
"  What,  would  you  have  him  toss  us  all ! 

And  damme  !  who  are  you  T" 
"  You'd  have  him  gore  the  parish-priest 

And  run  against  the  altar — 


110  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

You  fiend!"    The  sage  his  warnings  ceased, 
And  north  and  south  and  west  and  east, 
Halloo  !  they  follow  the  poor  beast — 
Mat,  Dick,  Tom,  Boh,  and  Walter. 

The  frighted  beast  ran  through  the  town 

All  followed,  boy  and  dad, 
Bull-dog,  parson,  shopman,  clown, 
The  publican  rushed  from  the  "  Crown," 
Halloo!  hamstring  him !  cut  him  down! 

They  drove  the  poor  Ox  mad. 

Should  you  a  rat  to  madness  teaze, 

Why,  even  a  rat  would  plague  you : 
There's  no  philosopher  but  sees 
That  rage  and  fear  are  one  disease  — 
Though  that  may  burn  and  this  may  freeze, 
They're  both  alike  the  ague. 

And  so,  this  Ox,  in  frantic  mood, 

Faced  round  like  any  Bull — 
The  mob  turn'd  tail  and  he  pursued 
Till  they  with  fright  and  fear  were  stew'd, 
And  not  a  chick  of  all  this  brood 

But  had  his  belly-full. 

Old  Nick's  astride  the  beast,  'tis  clear — 

Old  Nicholas  to  a  tittle ! 
But  all  agree,  he'd  disappear, 
Would  but  the  parson  venture  near, 
And  through  his  teeth  right  o'er  the  steer, 

Squirt  out  some  fasting  spittle.* 

Through  gardens,  lanes,  and  fields  new-plough'd, 
Through  Ins  hedge  and  through  her  hedge, 

He  plung'd  and  toss'd  and  bellowed  loud, 

Till  in  his  madness  he  grew  proud, 

To  see  this  helter-skelter  crowd 

That  had  more  wrath  than  courage. 

But  here  once  more  to  view  did  pop 

The  man  that  kept  his  senses, 
And  now  he  cried,  "  Stop,  neighbours,  stop  ! 
The  Ox  is  mad,  I  would  not  swop, 
No,  not  a  school-boy's  farthing  top 

For  all  the  parish  fences. 

"  The  Ox  is  mad!    Ho!  Dick,  Bob,  Mat ! 
What  means  this  coward  fuss  ? 


*  According  to  a  superstition  of  the  West  Countries,  if  you  meet 
tihe  Devil,  you  may  either  cut  him  in  half  with  a  straw,  or  you  may 
cause  him  instantly  to  disappear  by  spitting  over  his  horns. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  Ill 


Ho!   stretch  this  rope  across  the  plat, 
'Twill  trip  him  up,  —  or  if  not  that, 
Why,  damme  !  we  must  lay  him  flat  — 
See,  here's  my  blunderbuss  I" 


"  A  lying  dog  !    Just  now  he  said 

The  Ox  was  only  glad, 
Let's  break  his  presbyterian  head!"  — 
"  Hush  !"  quoth  the  sage,  "  you've  been  misled, 
No  quarrels  now,  Jet's  all  make  head— 

You  drove  the  poor  Ox  mad  !" 

As  thus  I  sat  in  careless  chat, 

With  the  morning's  wet  newspaper, 

In  eager  haste,  without  his  hat, 

As  blind  and  blundering  as  a  bat, 

In  came  that  tierce  aristocrat, 
Our  pursy  woollen-draper. 

And  so  my  Muse  perforce  drew  bit, 

As  in  he  rushed  and  pj.nted  ;  — 
"  Well,  have  you  heard  •?"  —  "No,  not  a  whit." 
"  What,  han't  you  heard?"—''  Come,  out  with  it!" 
"  That  Tierney  votes  for  Mister  Pitt, 

And  Sheridan's  recanted  !" 


II.— LOVE  POEMS. 


Quas  humilis  tenero  stylus  olim  effudit 
Perlegis  hie  lacrymas,  et  quod  pharetn 
Ille  puer  puero  fecit  mihi  cuspide  vuln 


Ius  olim  effudit  in  eevo. 

tratus  acuta 

Ille  puer  puero  fecit  mihi  cuspfde  vulnus, 
Omnia  paulatim  consumit  longior  aetas, 
Vivendpque  simul  morimur,  rapimurquo  manendo. 
Ipse  mihi  collatus  enim  non  ille  videbor: 
Irons  alia  est,  moresque  alii,  nova  mentis  imago, 
Voxque  aliud  son  at— 

Pectore  mine  gelido  calidos  miseremur  amantes, 
Jamque  arsisse  pudet.    Veteres  tranquilla  tumultus 
Mens  horret  relegensque  alium  putat  ista  locutum. 

PETRARCH. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  TALE  OF  THE  DARK 
LADIE. 

IN  Coleridge's  early  publication,  and  in  the  French  edition  copied 
from  it,  these  verses  were  united  with  those  now  printed  separately 
called  "Love,"  beginning  "All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights," 
and  the  whole  was  called  as  above,  with  the  following  note  pre- 
fixed. 

(The  following  poem  is  intended  as  the  introduction  to  a  some- 
what longer  one.  The  use  of  the  old  ballad  word  Ladle  for  Lady 
is  the  only  piece  of  obsoleteness  in  it;  and  as  it  is  professedly  a  tale 
of  ancient  times,  I  trast  that  the  affectionate  lovers  of  venerable 
antiquity  (as  Camden  says)  will  grant  me  their  pardon,  and  perhaps 
be  induced  to  admit  a  force  and  propriety  iu  it.  A  heavier  objection 


112  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

may  be  adduced  against  the  author,  that  in  these  time«  of  fear  and 
expectation,  when  novelties  explode  around  us  in  all  directions,  he 
should  presume  to  offer  to  the  public  a  silly  tale  of  old-fashioned 
love:  and  five  years  ago,  I  own  I  should  have  felt  the  force  of  this 
objection.  But  alas,  explosion  has  succeeded  explosion  so  rapidly, 
that  novelty  its*lf  ceases  to  appear  new,  and  it  is  possible  that  no'w 
even  a  simple  story,  wholly  uninspired  with  politics  or  personality, 
may  find  some  attention  amid  the  hubbub  of  revolutions,  as  to  those 
who  have  remained  a  long  time  by  the  falls  of  Niagara,  the  lowest 
whispering  becomes  distinctly  audible.)  S.  T.  C. 

Dec.  21,  1799. 

4 

O  LEAVE  the  lily  on  its  step, 
O  leave  the  rose  upon  the  spray ; 

O.  leave  the  elder-bloom,  fair  maids ! 
And  listen  to  my  lay. 

A  cypress  and  a  myrtle  bough 

This  morn  around  my  harp  you  twined, 

Because  it  fashioned  mournfully 
Its  murmurs  to  the  wind. 

And  now  a  tale  of  Love  and  Woe, 

A  woeful  tale  of  Love  I  sing ; 
Hark,  gentle  maidens,  hark!  it  sighs 

And  trembles  on  the  string. 

But  most  my  own  dear  Genevieve, 
It  sighs  and  trembles  most  for  thee ! 

0  come  and  hear  what  cruel  wrongs 

Befel  the  Dark  Ladie. 

*#**•# 

And  now  once  more  a  tale  of  woe, 

A  woeful  tale  of  Love  I  sing  ; 
For  thee,  my  Genevieve  !  it  sighs, 

And  trembles  on  the  string. 

When  last  I  sang  the  cruel  scorn 

That  crazed  this  bold  and  lonely  Knight, 

And  how  lie  roamed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  or  night, 

1  promised  thee  a  sister  tale 
Of  man's  perfidious  cruelty  ; 

Come,  then,  and  hear  what  cruel  wrong 
Befel  the  Dark  Ladie. 


LEWTI,  OR  THE  CIRCASSIAN  LOVE-CHAUNT. 

AT  midnight  by  the  stream  I  roved, 
To  forget  the  form  I  loved. 
Image  of  Lewti!  from  my  mind 
Depart ;  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  113 

The  Moon  was  high,  the  moonlight  gleam 

And  the  shadow  of  a  star 
Heaved  upon  Tamaha's  stream ; 

But  the  rock  shone  brighter  far, 
The  rock  half  sheltered  from  my  view 
By  pendent  boughs  of  tressy  yew — 
So  shines  my  Lewti's  forehead  fair, 
Gleaming  through  her  sable  hair. 
Image  of  Lewti !  from  my  mind 
Depart,  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 

I  saw  a  tfloud  of  palest  hue, 

Onward  to  the  Moon  it  passed ; 
Still  brighter  and  more  bright  it  grew, 
With  floating  colours  not  a  few, 

Till  it  reached  the  Moon  at  last : 
Then  the  cloud  was  wholly  bright, 
With  a  lich  and  amber  light ! 
And  so  with  many  a  hope  I  seek 

And  with  Such  joy  I  nnd  my  Lewti; 
And  even  so  my  pale  wan  cheek 

Drinks  in  as  deep  a  flush  of  beauty! 
Nay,  treacherous  image !  leave  my  mind, 
If  Lewti  never  will  be  kind. 

The  little  cloud — it  floats  away. 

Away  it  goes ;  away  so  soon  f 
Alas !  it  has  no  power  to  stay  : 
Its  hues  are  dim,  its  hues  are  grey — 

Away  it  passes  from  the  Moon  ! 
How  mournfully  it  seems  to  fly, 

Ever  fading  more  and  more, 
To  joyless  regions  of  the  sky — 

And  now  'tis  whiter  than  before! 
As  white  as  my  poor  cheek  will  be, 

When,  Lewti !  on  my  couch  I  lie, 
A  dying  man  for  love  of  thee. 
Nay,  treacherous  image !  leave  my  mind — 
And  yet,  thou  did'st  not  look  unkind. 

I  saw  a  vapour  in  the  sky, 

Thin,  and  Avhite,  and  very  high; 
I  ne'er  beheld  so  thin  a  cloud  : 

Perhaps  the  breezes  that  can  fly 

Now  below  and  now  above, 
Have  snatched  aloft  the  lawny  shroud 

Of  Lady  fair— that  died  for  love. 
For  maids,  as  well  as  youths,  have  perished 
From  fruitless  love  too  fondly  cherished. 
Nay,  treacherous  image  !  leave  my  mind — 
For  Lewti  never  will  be  kind. 


114  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Hush !  iny  heedless  feet  from  under 
Slip  the  crumbling  banks  for  ever: 

Like  echoes  to  a  distaut  thunder, 
They  plunge  into  the  gentle  river. 

The  river-swans  have  heard  my  tread, 

And  startle  from  their  reedy  bed. 

O  beauteous  Birds!  methinks  yt  measure 
Your  movements  to  some  heavenly  tune! 

0  beauteous  Birds !  'tis  such  a  pleasure 
To  see  you  move  beneath  the  Moon, 

1  would  it  were  your  true  delight 
To  sleep  by  day  and  wake  all  night. 

I  know  the  place  where  Lewti  lies, 
When  silent  night  has  closed  her  eyes : 

It  is  a  breezy  jasmine-bower, 
The  Nightingale  sings  o'er  her  bead : 

VOICE  of  the  Night !  had  I  the  power 
That  leafy  labyrinth  to  thread, 
And  creep,  like  thee,  with  soundless  tread, 
I  then  might  view  her  bosom  white 
Heaving  lovely  to  my  sight, 
As  these  two  swans  together  heave 
On  the  gently  swelling  wave. 

Oh!  that  she  saw  me  in  a  dream, 
And  dreamt  that  I  had  died  for  care  ! 

All  pale  and  wasted  I  would  seem, 
Yet  fair  withal,  as  spirits  are! 

I'd  die  indeed,  if  I  might  see 

Her  bosom  heave,  and  heave  for  me  ! 

Soothe,  gentle  image  !  soothe  my  mind! 

To-morrow  Lewti  may  be  kind. 
1795 


THE  PICTURE,  OR  THE  LOVER'S  RESOLUTION. 

THROUGH  weeds  and  thorns,  and  matted  underwood 
I  force  my  way  ;  now  climb,  and  now  descend 
O'er  rocks,  or  bare  or  mossy,  with  wild  f«»ot 
Crushing  the  purple  whorts;  while  oft  unseen, 
Hurrying  along  the  drifted  forest-leaves, 
The  scared  snake  rustles.    Onward  still  I  toil, 
I  know  not,  ask  not  whither!     A  new  joy, 
Lovely  as  light,  sudden  as  summer-gust, 
And  gladsome  as  the  first-born  of  the  spring, 
Beckons  me  on,  or  follows  from  behind, 
Playmate,  or  guide!     The  master-passion  quelled, 
I  feel  that  I  am  free.     With  dun-red  bark 
The  fir-trees,  and  the  unfrequent  slender  oak. 
Forth  from  this  tangle  wild  of  bush  and  brake 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  115 

Soar  up,  and  form  a  melancholy  vault 
High  o'er  me,  murmuring  like  a  distant  sea. 

Here  Wisdom  might  resort,  and  here  Remorse ; 

Here  too  the  love-lorn  Man  who,  sick  in  soul 

And  of  this  busy  human  heart  aweary, 

Worships  the  spirit  of  unconscious  life 

In  tree  or  wild-flower. — Gentle  Lunatic  ! 

If  so  he  might  not  wholly  cease  to  be, 

He  would  far  rather  not  be  that,  he  is ; 

But  would  be  something,  that  he  knows  not  of, 

In  winds  or  waters,  or  among  the  rocks  ! 

But  hence,  fond  wretch !  breathe  not  contagion  here1. 
No  myrtle-walks  are  these :  these  are  no  groves 
Where  Love  dare  loiter !    If  in  sullen  mood 
He  should  stray  hither,  the  low  stumps  shall  gore 
His  dainty  feet,  the  briar  and  the  thorn 
Make  his  plumes  haggard.    Like  a  wounded  bird 
Easily  caught,  ensnare  him,  O  ye  Nymphs, 
Ye  Oreads  chaste,  ye  dusky  Dryades ! 
And  you,  ye  EARTH- WINDS  !  you  that  make  at  morn 
The  dew-drops  quiver  on  the  spiders'  webs  ! 
You,  O  ye  wingless  AIRS  !  that  creep  between 
The  rigid  stems  of  heath  and  bitten  furze, 
Within  whose  scanty  shade,  at  Summer-noon, 
The  mother-sheep  hath  worn  a  hollow  bed — 
Ye,  that  now  cool  her  fleece  with  dropless  Damp, 
Now  pant  and  murmur  with  her  feeding  lamb. 
Chase,  chase  him,  all  ye  Fays,  and  elfin  Gnomes! 
With  prickles  sharper  than  his  darts  bemock 
His  little  Godship,  making  him  perforce 
Creep  through  a  thorn-bush  on  yon  hedgehog's  back. 

This  is  my  hour  of  triumph !    I  can  now 
With  my  own  fancies  play  the  merry  fool, 
And  laugh  away  worse  folly,  being  free. 
Here  will  I  seat  myself,  beside  this  old, 
Hollow,  and  weedy  oak,  which  ivy-twine 
Clothes  as  with  net-work  :  here  will  I  couch  my  limbs, 
Close  by  this  river,  in  this  silent  shade, 
As  safe  and  sacred  from  the  step  of  man 
As  an  invisible  world— unheard,  unseen, 
And  listening  only  to  the  pebbly  brook 
That  murmurs  with  a  dead,  yet  bell-like  sound, 
Tinkling,  or  liees,  that  in  the  neighbouring  trunk 
Make  honey-hoards.     The  breeze,  that  visits  me, 
Was  never  Love's  accomplice,  never  raised 
The  tendril  ringlets  from  the  maiden's  brow, 
And  the  blue,  delicate  veins  above  her  cheek  ; 
Ne'er  played  the  wanton — never  half  disclosed 
The  maiden's  snowy  bosom,  scattering  thence 


116  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Eye-poisons  for  some  love-distempered  youth, 
Who  ne'er  henceforth  may  see  an  aspen-grove 
Shiver  in  sunshine,  but  his  feeble  heart 
Shall  flow  away  like  a  dissolving  thing. 

Sweet  breeze !  thou  only,  if  I  guess  aright, 
Liftest  the  feathers  of  the  robin's  breast, 
That  swells  its  little  breast,  so  full  of  song, 
Singing  above  me,  on  the  mountain-ash. 
And  thou  too,  desert  Stream !  no  pool  of  thine, 
Though  clear  as  Jake  in  latest  summer-eve, 
Did  e'er  reflect  the  stately  virgiu's  robe, 
The  face,  the  form  divine,  the  downcast  look 
Contemplative!    Behold!  her  open  palm 
Presses  her  cheek  and  brow !  her  elbow  rests 
On  the  bare  branch  of  half-uprooted  tree, 
That  leans  towards  its  mirror!     Who,  erewhile 
Who  from  her  countenance  turned,  or  looked  by  stealth, 
(For  fear  is  true  love's  cruel  nurse,)  he  now, 
With  steadfast  gaze  and  unoffending  eye, 
Worships  the  watery  idol,  dreaming  hopes 
Delicious  to  the  soul,  but  fleeting,  vain, 
E'en  as  that  phantom  world  on  which  he  gazed, 
But  not  unheeded  gazed  :  for  see,  ah !  see, 
The  sportive  tyrant  with  her  left  hand  plucks 
The  heads  of  tall  flowers  that  behind  her  grow, 
Lychnis,  and  willow-herb,  and  fox-glove  bells: 
And  suddenly,  as  one  that  toys  with  time, 
Scatters  them  on  the  pool !     Then  all  the  charm 
Is  broken — all  that  phantom-world  so  fair 
Vanishes,  and  a  thousand  circlets  spread, 
And  each  mis-shape  the  other.     Stay  awhile, 
Poor  youth,  who  scarcely  darest  lift  up  thine  eyes ! 
The  stream  will  soon  renew  its  smoothness,  soon 
The  visions  will  return!     And  lo!  he  stays  : 
And  soon  the  fragments  dim  of  lovely  forms 
Come  trembling  back,  unite,  and  now  once  more 
The  pool  becomes  a  mirror;  and  behold 
Each  wildlloweron  the  marge  inverted  there, 
And  there  the  half-uprooted  tree — but  where, 
O  where  the  virgin's  snowy  arm,  that  leaned 
On  its  bare  branch  f     He  turns,  and  she  is  gone! 
Homeward  she  steals  through  many  a  woodland  maze 
Which  he  shall  seek  in  vain.    Ill-fated  youth! 
Go,  day  by  day,  and  waste  thy  manly  prime 
In  mad  Love-yearning  by  the  vacant  brook, 
Till  sickly  thoughts  bewitch  thine  eyes,  and  thou 
Behold'st  her  shadow  still  abiding  there, 
The  Naiad  of  the  Mirror! 

Not  to  thee, 
O  wild  and  desert  Stream!  belongs  this  tale: 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  117 

Gloomy  and  dark  art  thou—  the  crowded  firs 

Spire  from  thy  shores,  and  stretch  across  thy  bed, 

Making  thee  doleful  as  a  cavern- well : 

Save  when  the  shy  king-fishers  build  their  nest 

On  thy  steep  banks,  no  loves  hast  thou,  wild  stream ! 

This  be  my  chosen  haunt — emancipate 
From  passion's  dreams,  a  freeman,  and  alone, 
I  rise  and  trace  its  devious  course.    O  lead, 
Lead  me  to  deeper  shades  and  lonelier  glooms. 
Lo!  stealing  through  the  canopy  of  firs 
How  fair  the  sunshine  spots  that  mossy  rock, 
Isle  of  the  river,  whose  disparted  waves 
Dart  off  asunder  with  an  angry  sound, 
How  soon  to  re-unite!     And  see !  they  meet, 
Each  in  the  other  lost  and  found :  and  see 
Placeless,  as  spirits,  one  soft  water-sun 
Throbbing  within  them,  Heart  at  once  and  Eye! 
With  its  soft  neighbourhood  of  filmy  clouds, 
The  stains  and  shadings  of  forgotten  tears, 
Dimness  o'erswum  with  lustre!     Such  the  hour 
Of  deep  enjoyment,  following  love's  brief  feuds ! 
And  hark,  the  noise  of  a  near  waterfall ! 
I  pass  forth  into  light — I  find  myself 
Beneath  a  weeping  birch  (most  beautiful 
Of  forest-trees,  the  Lady  of  the  woods,) 
Hard  by  the  brink  of  a  tall  weedy  rock 
That  overbrows  the  cataract.     How  bursts 
The  landscape  on  my  sight!    Two  crescent  hills 
Fold  in  behind  each  other,  and  so  make 
A  circular  vale,  and  land-locked,  as  might  seem, 
With  brook  and  bridge,  and  grey  stoiie  cottages, 
Half  hid  by  rocks  and  fruit-trees.    At  my  feet, 
The  whortle-berries  are  bedewed  with  spray, 
Dashed  upwards  by  the  furious  waterfall. 
How  solemnly  theV^ndent  ivy-mass 
Swings  in  its  winnow!     All  the  air  is  calm. 
The  smoke  from  cottage-chimneys,  tinged  with  light, 
Kises  in  columns:  from  this  house  alone, 
Close  by  the  waterfall,  the  column  slants, 
And  feels  its  ceaseless  breeze.     But  what  is  THIS  ? 
That  cottage,  with  its  slanting  chimney-smoke, 
And  close  beside  its  porch  a  sleeping  child, 
His  dear  head  pillowed  on  a  sleeping  dog- 
One  arm  between  its  fore  legs,  and  the  hand 
Holds  loosely  its  small  handful  of  wild-flowers, 
Untilletted,  and  of  unequal  lengths. 
A  curious  picture,  with  a  master's  haste 
Sketched  on  a  strip  of  pinky-silver  skin, 
Peeled  from  the  birchen  bark !     Divinest  maid ! 
Yon  bark  her  canvas,  and  those  purple  berriea 
Her  pencil !    See,  the  juice  is  scarcely  dried 


118  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

On  the  fine  skin  !    She  has  been  newly  here  ; 

And  lo  !  yon  patch  of  heath  has  been  her  couch — 

The  pressure  still  remains !     O  blessed  couch ! 

For  this  mayst  thou  flower  early,  and  the  Sun, 

Slanting  at  eve,  rest  bright,  and  linger  long 

Upon  thy  purple  bells!     O  Isabel! 

Daughter  of  genius !  stateliest  of  our  maids ! 

More  beautiful  than  whom  Alceeus  wooed 

The  Lesbian  woman  of  immortal  song ! 

O  child  of  genius!  stately,  beautiful, 

And  full  of  love  to  all,  save  only  me, 

And  not  ungentle  e'en  to  me !    My  heart, 

Why  beats  it  thus  ?     Through  yonder  coppice-wood 

Needs  must  the  pathway  turn,  that  leads  straightway 

On  to  her  father's  house.    She  is  alone ! 

The  night  draws  on — such  ways  are  hard  to  hit — 

And  fit  it  is  I  should  restore  this  sketch. 

Dropt  unawares  no  doubt.    Why  should  I  yearn 

To  keep  the  relique  ?  'twill  but  idly  feed 

The  passion  that  consumes  me.     Let  me  haste! 

The  picture  in  my  hand  which  she  has  left; 

She  cannot  blame  me  that  I  followed  her : 

And  I  may  be  her  guide  the  long  wood  through. 


THE  NIGHT-SCENE : 
A  DRAMATIC  FRAGMENT. 

SANDOVAL. 
You  loved  the  daughter  of  Don  Manrique  f 

Earl  HENRY. 

Loved! 
SANDOVAL. 

Did  you  not  say  you  wooed  her  f 

Earl  HENRY. 

Once  I  loved 
Her  whom  I  dared  not  woo ! 

SANDOVAL, 

And  wooed,  perchance, 
One  whom  you  loved  not ! 

Earl  HENRY. 

Oh  !  I  were  most  base, 
Not  loving  Oropeza.    True,  I  wooed  her, 
Hoping  to  heal  a  deeper  wound ;  but  she 
Met  my  advances  with  impassioned  pride, 
That  kindled  love  with  love.  And  when  hei  sire, 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  119 

Who  in  his  dream  of  hope  already  grasped 

The  golden  circlet  in  his  hand,  rejected 

My  suit  with  insult,  and  in  memory 

Of  ancient  feuds  poured  curses  on  my  head, 

Her  blessings  overtook  and  baffled  them ! 

But  thou  art  stern,  and  with  unkindly  countenance 

Art  inly  reasoning  whilst  thou  listeuest  to  me. 

SANDOVAL. 

Anxiously,  Henry  !  reasoning  anxiously. 
But  Oropeza — 

Earl  HENRY. 

Blessings  gather  round  her ! 
Within  this  wood  there  winds  a  secret  passage, 
Beneath  the  walls,  which  opens  out  at  length 
Into  the  gloomiest  covert  of  the  Garden — 
The  night  ere  my  departure  to  the  army, 
She,  nothing  trembling,  led  me  through  that  gloom, 
And  to  that  covert  by  a  silent  stream, 
Which,  with  one  star  reflected  near  its  marge, 
Was  the  sole  object  visible  around  me. 
No  leaflet  stirred ;  the  air  was  almost  sultry ; 
So  deep,  so  dark,  so  close,  the  umbrage  o'er  us ! 
No  leaflet  stirred  ;— yet  pleasure  hung  upon 
The  gloom  and  stillness  of  the  balmy  night  air. 
A  little  further  on  an  arbour  stood, 
Fragrant  with  flowering  trees — I  well  remember 
What  an  uncertain  glimmer  in  the  darkness 
•Their  snow-white  blossoms  made — thither  she  led  me, 
To  that  sweet  bower !    Then  Oropeza  trembled — 
I  heard  her  heart  beat — if  'twere  not  my  own. 

SANDOVAL. 
A  rude  and  scaring  note,  my  friend ! 

Earl  HENRY. 

Oh!  no! 

I  have  small  memory  of  aught  but  pleasure. 
The  inquietudes  of  fear,  like  lesser  streams 
Still  flowing,  still  were  lost  in  those  of  love : 
So  love  grew  mightier  from  the  fear,  and  Nature, 
Fleeing  from  Pain,  sheltered  herself  in  Joy. 
The  stars  above  our  heads  were  dim  and  steady, 
Like  eyes  suffused  with  rapture.     Life  was  in  us : 
We  were  all  life,  each  atom  of  our  frames 
A  living  soul — I  \owed  to  die  for  her: 
With  the  faint  voice  of  one  who,  having  spoken, 
Relapses  into  blessedness,  I  vowed  it : 
That  solemn  vow,  a  whisper  scarcely  heard, 
A  murmur  breathed  against  a  lady's  ear. 
Oh  !  there  is  joy  above  the  name  of  pleasure, 
Deep  s"lf-possession,  an  intense  repose. 


120  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

SANDOVAL  (with  a  sarcastic  smile}. 

No  other  than  as  eastern  sages  paint, 
The  God,  who  floats  upon  a  Lotos  leaf, 
Dreams  for  a  thousand  ages ;  then  awaking, 
Creates  a  world,  and  smiling  at  the  bubble, 
Eelapses  into  bliss. 

Earl  HENRY. 

Ah !  was  that  bliss 

Feared  as  an  alien,  and  too  vast  for  man  f 
For  suddenly,  impatient  of  its  silence, 
Did  Oropeza,  starting,  grasp  my  forehead. 
I  caught  her  arms ;  the  veins  were  swelling  on  them. 
Through  the  dark  bower  she  «eut  a  hollow  voice, 
Oh !  what  if  all  betray  me  ?  what  if  thou  ? 
I  swore,  and  with  an  inward  thought  that  seemed 
The  purpose  and  the  substance  of  my  being, 
I  swore  to  her,  that  were  she  red  with  guilt, 
I  would  exchange  my  unblenched  state  with  hers. — 
Friend!  by  that  winding  passage,  to  that  bower 
I  now  will  go — all  objects  there  will  teach  me 
Unwavering  love,  and  singleness  of  heart. 
Go,  Sandoval !  I  am  prepared  to  meet  her — 
Say  nothing  of  me— I  myself  will  seek  her — 
Nay,  leave  me,  friend !     I  cannot  bear  the  torment 
And  keen  inquiry  of  that  scanning  eye. — 

[Earl  HENRY  retires  into  the  wood. 

SANDOVAL  (alone). 

O  Henry !  always  striv'st  thou  to  be  great 

By  thine  own  act — yet  art  thou  never  great 

But  by  the  inspiration  of  great  passion. 

The  whirl-blast  comes,  the  desert-sands  rise  up 

And  shape  themselves:  from  Earth  to  Heaven  they  stand, 

As  though  they  \vere  the  pillars  of  a  temple, 

Built  by  Omnipotence  in  its  own  honour ! 

But  the  blast  pauses,  and  their  shaping  spirit 

Is  fled :  the  mighty  columns  were  but  sand, 

And  lazy  snakes  trail  o'er  the  level  ruins ! 


• 
TO  AN  UNFORTUNATE  WOMAN, 

WHOM    THE   AUTHOR  HAD   KNOWN  IN  THE  DAYS  OF   HER 
INNOCENCE. 

MYRTLE-LEAF  that,  ill  besped, 

Finest  in  the  gladsome  ray, 
Soiled  beneath  the  common  tread, 

Far  from  thy  protecting  spray  ! 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  121 

Wlien  the  Partridge  o'er  the  sheaf 

Whirred  along  the  yellow  vale, 
Sad  I  saw  thee,  heedless  leaf! 

Love  the  dalliance  of  the  gale. 

Lightly  didst  thou,  foolish  thing ! 

Heave  and  flutter  to  his  sighs, 
While  the  flatterer,  on  his  wing, 

Wooed  and  whispered  thee  to  rise. 

Gaily  from  thy  mother-stalk 
Wert  thou  danced  and  wafted  high — 

Soon  on  this  unsheltered  walk 
Flung  to  fade,  to  rot  and  die. 


TO  AN  UNFORTUNATE  WOMAN  AT  THE 
THEATRE. 

MAIDEN,  that  with  sullen  brow 
Sittest  behind  those  virgins  gay, 

Like  a  scorched  and  mildewed  bough, 
Leafless  'mid  the  blooms  of  May ! 

Him  who  lured  thee  and  forsook, 
Oft  I  watched  with  angry  gaze, 

Fearful  saw  his  pleading  look, 
Anxious  heard  his  fervid  phrase. 

Soft  the  glances  of  the  youth, 

Soft  his  speech,  and  soft  his  sigh; 

But  no  sound  like  simple  truth, 
But  no  true  love  in  his  eye. 

Loathing  thy  polluted  lot, 
Hie  the?,  Maiden,  hie  thee  hence ! 

Seek  thy  weeping  Mother's  cot, 
With  a  wiser  innocence. 

Thou  hast  known  deceit  and  folly, 
Thou  has  felt  that  vice  is  woe :' 

With  a  musing  melancholy 
Inly  armed,  go,  Maiden !  go. 

Mother  sage  of  Self-dominion, 
Firm  thy  steps,  O  Melancholy ! 

The  strongest  plume  in  wisdom's  pinion 
Is  the  memory  of  past  folly. 


122  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Mute  the  sky -lark  and  forlorn, 

While  she  moults  the  firstling  plumes, 

That  had  skimmed  the  tender  corn, 
Or  the  bean-field's  odorous  hlooms. 

Soon  with  renovated  wing 
Shall  she  dare  a  loftier  flight, 

Upward  to  the  day-star  spring 
And  embathe  in  heavenly  light. 


LINES  COMPOSED  IN  A  CONCERT-ROOM. 

NOR  cold,  nor  stern,  my  soul!  yet  I  detest 

These  scented  Rooms,  where,  to  a  gaudy  throng, 

Heaves  the  proud  Harlot  her  distended  breast, 
In  intricacies  of  laborious  song. 

These  feel  not  Music's  genuine  power,  nor  deign 
To  melt  at  Nature's  passion-warbled  plaint; 

But  when  the  long-breathed  singer's  up  trilled  strain 
Bursts  in  a  squall — they  gape  for  wonderment. 

Hark !  the  deep  buzz  of  Vanity  and  Hate ! 

Scornful,  yet  envious,  with  self  torturing  sneer 
My  lady  eyes  some  maid  of  humbler  state 

While  the  pert  Captain,  or  the  primmer  Priest, 

Prattles  accordant  scandal  in  her  ear. 
Ogive  me,  from  this  heartless  scene  released, 

To  hear  our  old  musician,  bliiul  and  grey, 
(Whom  stretching  from  my  nurse's  arms  I  kissed,) 

His  Scottish  tunes  and  warlike  marches  play, 
By  moonshine,  on  the  balmy  sinmix-r-night, 

The  while  I  dance  amid  the  tedded  hay 
With  merry  niuids,  whose  ringlets  toss  in  light. 

Or  lies  the  purple  evening  on  the  bay 
Of  the  calm  glossy  lake,  O  let  me  hide 

Unheard,  unseen,  behind  the  alder-trees, 
For  round  their  roots  the  fisher's  boat  i.s  tied, 

On  whose  trim  seat  doth  Edmund  stretch  at  ease, 
And  while  the  lazy  boat  sways  to  and  fro. 
•     Breathes  in  his  llute  sad  airs,  so  wild  and  slow, 
That  his  own  cheek  is  wet  with  quiet  tears. 

But  O,  dear  Anne  !  wlien'miduight  wind  careers, 
And  the  gust  pelting  on  the  out-house  shed 
Makes  the  cock  shrilly  ou  the  rain-storm  crow, 
To  hear  thee  sing  some  ballad  full  of  woe, 
Ballad  of  ship-wrecked  sailor  floating  dead, 
Whom  his  own  true-love  buried  in  the  sands  ! 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  123 

Thee,  gentle  woman,  for  thy  voice  remeasures 
Whatever  tones  and  melancholy  pleasures 

The  Things  of  Nature  utter ;  birds  or  trees 
Or  moan  of  ocean-gale  in  weedy  caves, 
Or  where  the  stiff  grass  mid  the  heath-plant  waves, 

Murmur  and  music  thin  of  sudden  breeze. 


THE  KEEP-SAKE. 

THE  tedded  hay,  the  first  fruits  of  the  soil, 

The  tedded  hay  and  corn-sheaves  in  one  field, 

Shew  summer  gone,  ere  come.    The  foxglove  tall 

Sheds  its  loose  purple  bells,  or  in  the  gust, 

Or  when  it  benda  beneath  the  up-springing  lark, 

Or  mountain-finch  alighting.    And  the  rose 

(In  vain  the  darling  of  successful  love") 

Stands,  like  some  boasted  beauty  of  past  years, 

The  thorns  remaining,  and  the  flowers  all  gone. 

Nor  can  I  find,  amid  my  lonely  walk 

By  rivulet,  or  spring,  or  wet  road-side, 

That  blue  and  bright-eyed  floweret  of  the  brook, 

Hope's  gentle  gem,  the  sweet  FORGET-ME-NOT  !* 

So  will  not  fade  the  flowers  which  Emmeline 

With  delicate  fingers  on  the  snow-white  silk 

Has  worked,  (the  flowers  which  most  she  knew  I  loved,) 

And,  more  beloved  than  they,  her  auburn  hair. 

In  the  cool  morning  twilight,  early  waked 
By  her  full  bosom's  joyless  restlessness, 
Softly  she  rose,  and  lightly  stole  along, 
Down  the  slope  coppice  to  the  woodbine  bower, 
Whose  rich  flowers,  swinging  in  the  morning  breeze, 
Over  their  dim  fast-moving  shadows  hung, 
Making  a  quiet  image  of  disquiet 
In  the  smooth,  scarcely  moving  river-pool. 
There,  in  that  bower  where  first  she  owned  her  love, 
And  let  me  kiss  my  own  warm  tear  of  joy 
From  off  her  glowing  cheek,  she  sate  and  stretched 
The  silk  upon  the  frame,  and  worked  her  name 
Between  the  Moss-RosE  and  FORGET-ME-NOT — 
Her  own  dear  name,  with  her  own  auburn  hair ! 
That  forced  to  wander  till  sweet  Spring  return, 
I  yet  might  ne'er  forget  her  smile,  her  look, 
Her  voice,  (that  even  in  her  mirthful  mood 
Has  made  me  wish  to  steal  away  and  weep,) 

*  One  of  the  names  (and  meriting  to  be  the  only  one)  9f  the 
Myosotis  Scorpioides  Palustris,  a  flower  from  six  to  twelve  inches 
high,  with  blue  blossom  and  bright  yellow  eye.  It  has  the  same 
name  over  the  whole  Empire  of  Germany  (Virgissmein  nicht)  and 
we  believe,  in  Denmark  and  Sweden. 


124  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Nor  yet  the  enhancement  of  that  maiden  kiss 
With  which  she  promised,  that  when  spring  returned, 
She  would  resign  one  half  of  that  dear  name, 
And  own  thenceforth  no  other  name  but  mine 


TO   A   YOUNG   LADY. 

OX  HER  RECOVERY  FROM  A  FEVER. 

WHY  need  I  say,  Louisa  dear ! 
How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  here, 

A  lovely  convalescent ; 
Risen  from  the  bed  of  pain,  and  fear, 

And  feverish  heat  incessant. 

The  sunny  Showers,  the  dappled  Sky, 
The  little  Birds  that  warble  high, 

Their  vernal  loves  commencing, 
Will  better  welcome  you  than  I 

With  their  sweet  influencing. 

Believe  me,  while  in  bed  you  lay, 
Your  danger  taught  us  all  to  pray 

You  made  us  grow  devouter ! 
Each  eye  looked  up  and  seemed  to  say, 

How  can  we  do  without  her  ? 

Besides,  what  vexed  us  worse,  we  knew, 
They  have  no  need  of  such  as  you 

In  the  place  where  you  were  going 
This  World  has  angels  all  too  few, 

And  Heaven  is  overflowing  I 


TO   A   LADY. 
WITH  FALCONER'S  "SHIPWRECK." 

AH  !  not  by  Cam  or  Isis,  famous  streams, 

In  arched  groves,  the  youthful  poet's  choice  ; 

Nor  while  half-listening,  mid  delicious  dreams, 
To  harp  and  song  from  lady's  hand  and  voice; 

Nor  yet  while  gazing  in  sublimer  mood 
On  cliff,  or  cataract,  in  Alpine  dell; 

Nor  in  dim  cave  with  bladdery  sea- weed  strewed, 
Framing  wild  fancies  to  the  ocean's  swell 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  125 

Our  sea-bard  sang  this  song  !  which  still  he  sings, 
And  sings  for  thee,  sweet  friend  !  Hark,  Pity,  hark! 

Now  mounts,  now  totters  on  the  Tempest's  wings, 
Now  groans,  and  shivers,  the  replunging  Bark ! 

"  Cling  to  the  shronds !"  In  vain  !   The  breakers  roar — 
Death  shrieks !     With  two  alone  of  all  his  clan 

Forlorn  the  poet  paced  the  Grecian  shore, 
No  classic  roamer,  but  a  ship-wrecked  man  ! 

Say  then,  what  muse  inspired  these  genial  strains,    - 

And  lit  his  spirit  to  so  bright  a  flame  ? 
The  elevating  thought  of  suffered  pains, 

Which  gentle  hearts  shall  mourn ;  but  chief,  the  name 

Of  Gratitude !    Remembrances  of  Friend , 

Or  absent  or  no  more  !  Shades  of  the  Past, 
Which  Love  makes  Substance  I    Hence  to  thee  I  send, 
,     O  dear  as  long  as  life  and  memory  last  I 

I  send  with  deep  regards  of  heart  and  head, 
Sweet  maid,  for  friendship  formed !  this  work  to  thee : 

And  thou,  the  while  thou  canst  not  choose  but  shed 
A  tear  for  FALCONER,  wilt  remember  ME. 


HOME-SICK. 

WRITTEN  IN  GERMANY. 

'Tis  sweet  to  him,  who  all  the  week 

Through  city-crowds  must  push  his  way, 

To  stroll  alone  through  fields  and  woods, 
And  hallow  thus  the  Sabbath-Day. 

And  sweet  it  is,  in  Summer  bower, 

Sincere,  affectionate  and  gay, 
One's  own  dear  children  feasting  round, 

To  celebrate  one's  marriage-day. 

But  what  is  all,  to  his  delight, 
Who  having  long  been  doomed  to  roam, 

Throws  off  the  bundle  from  hi&  back, 
Before  the  door  of  his  own  home  ? 

Home-sickness  is  a  wasting  pang ; 

This  feel  I  hourly  more  and  more : 
There's  Healing  only  in  thy  wings, 

Thou  Breeze  that  playest  on  Albion's  shore ! 


126  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

SOMETHING  CHILDISH,  BUT  VERY  NATURAL. 

WRITTEN  IN  GERMANY. 

IF  I  had  but  two  little  wings, 
And  were  a  little  feathery  bird, 

To  you  I'd  fly,  my  dear ! 
But  thoughts  like  these  are  idle  things, 
And  I  stay  here. 

But  in  my  sleep  to  you  I  fly : 
I'm  always  with  you  in  my  sleep! 

The  world  is  all  one's  own. 
But  then  one  wakes,  and  where  am  I  ? 
All,  all  alone. 

Sleep  stays  not,  though  a  monarch  bids : 
So  I  love  to  wake  ere  break  of  day  : 

For  though  my  sleep  be  gone, 
Yet,  while  'tis  dark,  one  shuts  one's  lids, 
And  still  dreams  on. 


ANSWER  TO  A  CHILD'S  QUESTION. 

Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say  ?    The  Sparrow,  the  Dove, 

The  Linnet  and  Thrush  say,  "  I  love  and  I  love !" 

In  the  winter  they're  silent — the  wind  is  so  strong  ; 

What  it  says,  I  don't  know,  but  it  sings  a  loud  song. 

But  green  leaves,  and  blossoms,  and  sunny  warm  weather, 

And  singing,  and  loving — all  come  back  together. 

But  the  Lark  is  so  brimful  of  gladness  and  love, 

The  green  fields  below  him,  the  blue  sky  above, 

That  he  sings,  and  he  siii-gs  ;  and  forever  sings  he, 

"I  love  my  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me  !" 


THE  VISIONARY  HOPE. 

SAD  lot,  to  have  no  HOPE  !    Though  lowly  kneeling 

He  fain  would  frame  a  prayer  within  his  breast, 

Would  fain  entreat  for  some  sweet  breath  of  healing, 

That  his  sick  body  might  have  ease  and  rest; 

He  strove  in  vain  !  the  dull  sighs  from  his  chest 

Against  his  will  the  stifling  load  revealing, 

Though  Nature  forced ;  though  like  some  captive  guest, 

Some  royal  prisoner  at  his  conqueror's  feast, 

An  alien's  restless  mood  but  half  concealing, 

The  sternness  on  his  gentle  brow  confessed 

Sickness  within  and  miserable  feeling : 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  127 

Though  obscure  pangs  made  curses  of  his  dreams, 
And  dreaded  sleep,  each  night  repelled  in  vain, 
Each  night  was  scattered  by  its  own  lond  screams  : 
Yet  never  could  his  heart  command,  though  fain, 
One  deep  full  wish  to  be  no  more  in  pain. 

That  HOPE,  which  was  his  inward  bliss  and  boast, 
Which  waned  and  died,  yet  ever  near  him  stood, 
Though  changed  in  nature,  wander  where  he  would — 
For  Love's  Despair  is  but  Hope's  pining  Ghost ! 
For  this  one  hope  he  makes  his  hourly  moan, 
He  wishes  and  can  wish  for  this  alone ! 
Pierced,  as  with  light  from  Heaven,  before  its  gleams 
(So  the  love-stricken  visionary  deems) 
Disease  would  vanish,  like  a  summer  shower, 
Whose  dews  fling  sunshine  from  the  noon-tide  bower ! 
Or  let  it  stay!  yet  this  one  Hope  should  give 
Such  strength  that  he  would  bless  his  pains  and  live. 


THE  HAPPY  HUSBAND. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

OFT,  oft  methinks,  the  while  with  Thee 
I  breathe,  as  from  the  heart,  thy  dear 
And  dedicated  name,  I  hear  > 

A  promise  and  a  mystery, 

A  pledge  of  more  than  passing  life, 
Yea,  in  that  very  name  of  Wife ! 

A  pulse  of  love,  that  ne'er  can  sleep ! 

A  feeling  that  upbraids  the  heart 

With  happinesss  beyond  desert, 
That  gladness  half  requests  to  weep  ! 

Nor  bless  I  not  the  keener  sense 

And  uualarming  turbulence 

Of  transient  joys,  that  ask  no  sting 

From  jealous  fears,  or  coy  denying  ; 

But  born  beneath  Love's  brooding  wing, 
And  into  tenderness  soon  dying, 

Wheel  out  their  giddy  moment,  then 

Resign  the  soul  to  love  again 

A  more  precipitated  vein 

Of  notes,  that  eddy  in  the  flow 

Of  smoothest  song,  they  come,  they  go, 

And  leave  their  sweeter  understrain 
Its  own  sweet  self — a  love  of  Thee 
That  seems,  yet  cannot  greater  be ! 


128      •  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES 


ON  RE-VISITING   THE    SEA-SHORE,    AFTER    LONG 
ABSENCE, 

UNDEB  STRONG  MEDICAL  RECOMMENDATION  NOT  TO  B4THE. 

GOD  be  with  thee,  gladsome  Ocean  ! 

How  gladly  greet  I  thee  once  more  ! 
Ships  and  waves,  and  ceaseless  motion, 

And  men  rejoicing  on  thy  shore. 

Dissuading  spake  the  mild  Physician, 

"  Those  briny  waves  for  thee  are  Death  !" 

But  my  soul  fulfilled  her  mission, 
And  lo !  I  breathe  uutroubled  breath ! 

FASHION'S  pining  Sons  and  Daughters, 
That  seek  the  crowd  they  seem  to  fly, 

Trembling  they  approach  thy  waters ; 
And  what  cares  Nature,  if  they  die  f 

Me  a  thousand  hopes  and  pleasures, 
A  thousand  recollections  bland, 

Thoughts  sublime,  and  stately  measures, 
Revisit  on  thy  echoing  strand : 

Dreams,  Cthe  Soul  herself  forsaking,) 
Tearful  raptures,  boyish  mirth ; 

Silent  adorations,  making 
A  blessed  shadow  of  this  Earth ! 

O  ye  hopes,  that  stir  within  me, 
Health  comes  with  you  from  above ! 

God  is  with  me,  God  is  in  me ! 
I  cannot  die,  if  Life  be  Love. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LOVE. 


How  Avarm  this  woodland  wild  Recess ! 

LOVE  surely  hath  been  breathing  here. 

And  this  sweet  bed  of  heath,  my  dear ! 
Swells  up,  then  sinks  with  faint  caress, 

As  if  to  have  you  yet  more  near. 

II. 

Eight  springs  have  flown,  since  last  I  lay 
On  sea-ward  Quautock's  heathy  hills, 
Where  quiet  sounds  from  hidden  rills 

Float  here  and  there,  like  things  astray, 
And  high  o'er  head  the  sky-lark  shrills. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  129 

in. 

No  voice  as  yet  Lad  made  the  air 
Be  music  with  your  name ;  yet  why 
That  asking  look  ?  that  yearning  sigh  ? 

That  sense  of  promise  every  where? 
Beloved !  flew  your  spirit  hy  I 

IV. 

As  when  a  mother  doth  explore 
The  rose-mark  on  her  long-lost  child, 
I  met,  I  loved  you,  maiden  mild ! 

As  whom  I  long  had  loved  before — 
So  deeply,  had  I  been  beguiled. 

V. 

You  stood  before  me  like  a  thought, 

A  dream  remembered  in  a  dream. 

But  when  those  meek  eyes  first  did  seem 
To  tell  me,  Love  within  you  wrought — 

O  Greta,  dear  domestic  stream ! 

VI. 

Has  not,  since  then,  Love's  prompture  deep, 
Has  not  Love's  whisper  evermore, 
Been  ceaseless,  as  thy  gentle  roar  ? 

Sole  voice,  when  other  AToices  sleep, 
Dear  under-song  in  Clamor's  hour. 


THE  COMPOSITION  OF  A  KISS. 

CUPID,  if  storying  legends  tell  aright,. 

Once  framed  a  rich  elixir  of  delight. 

A  chalice  o'er  love-kindled  flames  he  fix'd, 

And  in  it  nectar  and  ambrosia  mix'd : 

With  these  the  magic  dews  which  evening  brings, 

Brush' d  from  the  Idalian  star  by  faery  wings : 

Each  tender  pledge  of  sacred  faith  he  join'd, 

Each  gentler  pleasure  of  the  unspotted  mind — 

Day-dreams,  whose  tints  with  sportive  brightness  glow, 

And  Hope,  the  blameless  parasite  of  Woe. 

The  eyeless  Chemist  heard  the  process  rise, 
The  steamy  chalice  bubbled  up  in  sighs ; 
Sweet  sounds  transpired  as  when  tlrenamor'd  dove 
Pours  the  soft  murmuring  of  responsive  love. 
The  finish'd  work  might  Envy  vainly  blame, 
And  "  Kisses  "  was  the  precious  compound's  name. 
With  half,  the  god  his  Cyprian  mother  blest, 
And  spread  on  Sara's  lovelier  lips  the  rest ! 

F* 


•ti- 


130  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

in.— MEDITATIVE  POEMS, 

IN  BLANK   VERSE. 


Yea.  he  deserves  to  find  himself  deceived, 
Who  seek*  a  Heart  in  the  unthinking  Man. 
Like  shadows  on  a  stream,  the  forms  of  lite 
Impress  their  characters  on  the  smooth  forehead: 
Nought  sinks  into  the  Bosom's  silent  depth. 
Quick  sensibility  of  Pain  and  Pleasure 
Moves  the  light  fluids  lightly;  but  no  soul 
Warmeth  the  inner  frame. 

SCHILLER. 


HYMN  BEFORE  SUN-RISE,  IN  THE  VALE  OF 
CHAMOUNY. 

Besides  the  Rivers,  Arve  and  Arveiron,  which  have  their  sources 
in  the  foot  of  Mont  Blanc,  five  conspicuous  torrents  rush  down  its 
sides;  and  within  a  few  paces  of  the  Glaciers,  the  Uentiana  Major 
grows  iu  immense  numbers,  with  its  "flowers  of  loveliest  blue." 

HAST  thon  a  charm  to  stay  the  Morning-Star 
In  hia  steep  course  ?     So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran  BLANC! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly  j  but  thou,  most  awful  Form  ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  Sea  of  Pines, 
How  silently!     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass:  methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge!     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  chrystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount  !  I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou.  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought  :  entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  Thought, 
Yea,  with  rny  Life  and  Life's  own  secret  Joy  : 
Till  the  dilating  Soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  Vision  passing—  there 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  Heaven  ! 

Awake,  my  soul!  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest!  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy!     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !     Awake,  my  Heart,  awake  ! 
Green  Vales  and  icy  Cliffs,  all  join  my  Hymn. 


SIBYLLINE   LEAVES.  131 

» 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  Sovereign  of  the  Vale ! 
O  struggling  with  the  Darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink  : 
Companion  of  the  Morning-Star  at  Dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  ROSY  STAR,  and  of  the  Dawn 
Co-herald :  wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  Earth  f 
Who  filled  thy  Countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thce  Parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth,          « 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  Rocks 
For  over  shattered  and  the  same  for  ever  f 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came,) 
Here  let  the  Billows  stiffen,  and  have  Rest  f 

Ye  Ice-falls !  ye  that  from  the  Mountain's  brow 

Adown  enormous  Ravines  slope  amain — 

Torrents,  inethinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  Voice, 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 

Motionless  Torrents  I  silent  Cataracts! 

Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  Gates  of  Heaven 

Beneath  the  keen  full  Moon  ?    Who  bade  the  Sun 

Clothe  you  with  Rainbows?    Who,  with  living  flowers 

Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? — 

GOD  !  let  the  Torrents,  like  a  Shout  of  Nations 

Answer !  and  let  the  Ice-plains  echo,  GOD! 

GOD!  sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice! 

Ye  Pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds! 

And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  Snow, 

And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  GOD  ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  Frost ! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  Eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  Eagles,  play-mates  of  the  Mountain  Storm ! 
Ye  Lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  Clouds! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 
Utter  forth  GOD,  and  fill  the  Hills  with  Praise ! 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount!  with  thy  sky-pointing  Peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  Avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  Serene 
Into  the  depth  of  Clouds,  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain  !  thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  Base 


132  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

% 

Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapoury  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — Rise,  O  ever  rise, 
Kise  like  cloud  of  Incense,  from  the  Earth! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  Hills, 
Thou  dread  Ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  Hierarch !  tell  thou  the  silent  Sky, 
And  tell  the  Stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  Sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  GOD. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  IK  THE  ALBUM  AT  ELBINGERODE,  IN  THE  HARTZ 
FOREST. 

I  STOOD  on  Brocken's  *  sovran  height,  and  saw 

Woods  crowding  upon  woods,  hills,  over  hills, 

A  surging  scene,  and  only  limited 

By  the  blue  distance.    Heavily  my  way 

Downward  I  dragged  through  fir  groves  evermore, 

Where  bright  green  moss  heaves  in  sepulchral  forms 

Speckled  with  sunshine ;  and,  but  seldom  heard, 

The  sweet  bird's  song  became  an  hollow  sound; 

And  the  breeze,  murmuring  indivisibly, 

Preserved  its  solemn  murmur  most  distinct 

From  many  a  note  of  many  a  waterfall, 

And  the  brook's  chatter ;  'mid  whose  islet  stones 

The  dingy  kidling  with  its  tinkling  bell 

Leaped  frolicsome,  or  old  romantic  goat 

Sat,  his  white  beard  slow  waving.     I  moved  on 

In  low  and  languid  mood  :t  for  I  had  found 

That  outward  Forms,  the  loftiest,  still  receive 

Their  finer  influence  from  the  Life  within : 

Fair  Cyphers  of  vague  import,  where  the  Eye 

Traces  no  spot,  in  which  the  Heart  may  read 

History  or  Prophecy  of  Friend,  or  Child, 

Or  gentle  Maid,  our  first  and  early  love, 

Or  Father,  or  the  venerable  name 

Of  our  adored  Country!  O  thou  Queen, 

Thou  delegated  Deity  of  Earth, 

O  dear,  dear  England !  how  my  longing  eye 

*  The  highest  mountain  in  the  Hartz,  and  indeed  in  North  Ger- 
many. 

t When  I  have  gazed 

From  some  high  eminence  on  goodly  vales, 
And  cots  and  villages  embowered  below, 
The  thought  would  rise  that  all  to  me  was  strange 
Amid  the  scenes  so  fair,  nor  one  small  spot 
Where  my  tired  mind  might  rest,  and  call  it  home. 

SOUTHEY'S  Hym  n  to  the  Penates. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  133 

Turned  westward,  shaping  in  the  steady  clouds 
Thy  sands  and  high  white  cliffs ! 

My  native  Land ! 

Filled  with  the  thought  of  thee  this  heart  was  proud. 
Yea,  mine  eye  swam  with  tears :  that  all  the  view 
From  sovran  Brocken,  woods  and  woody  hills, 
Floated  away,  like  a  departing  dream, 
Feeble  and  dim!  Stranger,  these  impulses 
Blame  thou  not  lightly ;  nor  will  I  profane, 
With  hasty  judgment  or  injurious  doubt, 
That  man's  sublimer  spirit,  who  can  feel 
That  God  is  everywhere!  the  God  who  framed 
Mankind  to  be  one  mighty  Family, 
Himself  our  Father,  and  the  World  our  Home. 


THE    EOLIAN  HARP. 

COMPOSED  AT  CLEVEDON,  SOMERSETSHIRE. 

MY  pensive  Sara !  thy  soft  cheek  reclined 

Thus  on  mine  arm,  most  soothing  sweet  it  is 

To  sit  beside  our  cot,  our  cot  o'ergrown 

With    white-flowered    Jasmin,    and    the   broad-leaved 

Myrtle, 

(Meet  emblems  they  of  Innocence  and  Love!) 
And  watch  the  clouds,  that  Jate  were  rich  with  light, 
Slow  saddening  round,  and  mark  the  star  of  eve 
Serenely  brilliant  (such  should  wisdom  be) 
Shine  opposite !    How  exquisite  the  scents 
Snatched  from  yon  bean-field  !  and  the  world  so  hushed ! 
The  stilly  murmur  of  the  distant  Sea 
Tells  us  of  Silence. 

And  that  simplest  Lute, 

Placed  length-ways  in  the  clasping  casement,  hark ! 
How  by  the  desultory  breeze  caressed, 
Like  some  coy  maid  half  yielding  to  her  lover, 
It  pours  such  sweet  upbraiding,  as  must  needs 
Tempt  to  repeat  the  wrong!     And  now,  its  strings 
Boldlier  swept,  the  long  sequacious  notes 
Over  delicious  surges  sink  and  rise, 
Such  a  soft  floating  witchery  of  sound 
As  twilight  Elfins  make,  when  they  at  eve 
Voyage  on  gentle  gales  from  Fairy-Land,     • 
Where  melodies  round  honey-dropping  flowers, 
Footless  and  wild,  like  birds  of  Paradise, 
Nor  pause,  nor  perch,  hovering  on  untamed  wing! 
O  the  one  life  within  us  and  abroad, 
Which  meets  all  motion  and  becomes  its  soul, 
A  light  in  sound,  a  sound-like  power  in  light 
Rhythm  in  all  thought,  and  joyance  every  where — 


134  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Methinks,  it  should  have  been  impossible 
Not  to  love  all  things  in  a  "world  so  filled ; 
Where  the  breeze  warbles,  and  the  mute  still  air, 
Is  Music  slumbering  on  her  instrument. 

And  thus,  my  love  !  as  on  the  midway  slope 
Of  yonder  hill  I  stretch  my  limbs  at  noon, 
Whilst  through  my  half-closed  eye-lids  I  behold 
The  sunbeams  dance,  like  diamonds,  on  the  main, 
And  tranquil  muse  upon  tranquillity; 
Full  many  a  thought  uncalled  and  undetaiiied, 
And  many  idle  flitting  phantasies, 
Traverse  my  indolent  and  passive  brain, 
As  wild  and  various  as  the  random  g  lies 
That  swell  and  flutter  on  this  subject  lute  ! 

And  what  if  all  of  animated  nature 
Be  but  organic  harps  diversely  framed, 
That  tremble  into  thought,  as  o'er  them  sweeps 
Plastic  and  vast,  one  intellectual  bree/o, 
At  once  the  Soul  of  each,  and  God  of  all  f 

But  thy  more  serious  eye  a  mild  reproof 
Darts,  O  beloved  woman  !  nor  such  thoughts 
Dim  and  unhallowed  dost  thou  not  reject, 
And  biddest  me  walk  humbly  with  my  God. 
Meek  daughter  in  the  family  of  Christ! 
Well  hast  thou  said  and  hoiily  dispraised 
These  shapings  of  the  unregenerate  mind; 
Bubbles  that  glitter  as  they  rise  and  break 
On  vain  Philosophy's  aye-babbling  spring. 
For  never  guiltless  may  I  speak  of  him, 
The  Incomprehensible  !  save  when  with  awe 
I  praise  him,  and  with  Faith  that  inly  feels ; 
Who  with  his  saving  mercies  healed  me, 
A  sinful  and  most  miserable  Man, 
Wildered  and  dark,  and  gave  me  to  possess 
Peace,  and  this  Cot,  and  theo,  heart-honoured  Maid ! 


ON    OBSERVING    A    BLOSSOM    ON    THE   FIRST   OF 
FEBRUARY,  1796. 

SWEET  Flower !  that  peeping  from  thy  russet  stem 
Unfoldest  timidly,  (for  in  strange  sort 
This  dark,  frieze-coated,  hoarse,  teeth-chattering  Month 
Hath  borrowed  Zephyr's  voice,  and  gazed  upon  thee 
With  blue  voluptuous  eye)  alas,  poor  Flower  I 
These  are  but  flatteries  of  the  faithless  year. 
Perchance,  escaped  its  unknown  polar  cave, 
E-'en  now  the  keen  North-East  is  on  its  way. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  135 

Flower  that  must  perish  !  shall  I  liken  thee 
To  some  sweet  girl  of  too  too  rapid  growth 
Nipped  by  Consumption  'mid  untimely  charms  ? 
Or  to  Bristowa's  Bard,*  the  wondrous  boy  ! 
An  Amaranth,  which  Earth  scarce  seemed  to  own, 
Blooming  'mid  po-v  erty's  drear  wintry  waste, 
Till  Disappointment  came,  and  pelting  wrong 
Beat  it  to  Earth  ?  or  with  indignant  grief 
Shall  I  compare  thee  to  poor  Poland's  Hope, 
Bright  flower  of  Hope  killed  in  the  opening  bud  ? 
Farewell,  sweet  blossom !  better  fate  be  thine 
And  mock  my  boding !    Dim  similitudes 
Weaving  in  moral  strains,  I've  stolen  one  hour 
From  anxious  SELF,  Life's  cruel  Task-Master ! 
And  the  warm  wooings  of  this  sunny  day 
Tremble  along  my  frame  and  harmonize 
The  attempered  organ,  that  even  saddest  thoughts 
Mix  with  some  sweet  sensations,  like  harsh  tunes 
Played  deftly  on  a  soft-toned  instrument. 


EEFLECTIONS  ON  HAVING  LEFT  A  PLACE   OF 
KETIREMENT. 

Sermoni  propriora.—  Hon. 

Low  was  our  pretty  Cot ;  our  tallest  IZoso 
Peeped  at  the  chamber-window.    We  could  hear 
At  silent  noon,  and  eve,  and  early  morn, 
The  Sea's  faint  murmur.    In  the  open  air 
Our  Myrtles  blossomed;  and  across  the  Porch 
Thick  jasmins  twined :  the  little  landscape  round 
Was  green  and  woody,  and  refreshed  the  eye. 
It  was  a  spot  which  you  might  aptly  call 
The  VALLEY  of  SECLUSION  !    Once  I  saw 
(Hallowing  his  Sabbath-day  by  quietness) 
A  wealthy  son  of  commerce  saunter  by, 
Bristowa's  citizen:  methought,  it  calmed 
His  thirst  cf  idle  gold,  and  made  him  muse 
With  wiser  feelings :  for  he  paused,  and  looked 
With  a  pleased  sadness,  and  gazed  all  around, 
Then  eyed  our  Cottage,  and  gazed  round  again, 
And  sighed,  and  said,  it  was  a  Blessed  Place. 
And  we  were  blessed.    Oft  with  patient  ear 
Long-listening  to  the  viewless  sky-lark's  note 
(Viewless,  or  haply  for  a  moment  seen 
Gleaming  on  sunny  wings)  in  whispered  tones 
I've  said  to  my  beloved,  "  Such,  sweet  girl  I 
"  The  inobtrusive  song  of  Happiness, 

*  Chatterton. 


135  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

"  Unearthly  minstrelsy !  then  only  heard 

"  When  the  soul  seeks  to  hear ;  when  all  is  hushed, 

"  And  the  Heart  listens  \» 

But  the  time  when  first 

From  that  low  Dell,  steep  up  the  stony  Mount 
I  climbed  with  perilous  toil  and  reached  the  top, 
Oh !  what  a  goodly  scene !     Here  the  Bleak  Mount, 
The  bare  bleak  Mountain  speckled  thin  with  sheep  ; 
Grey  clouds,  that  shadowing  spot  the  sunny  fields ; 
And  River,  now  with  bushy  rocks  o'erbrowed, 
Now  winding  bright  and  full,  with  naked  banks  ; 
And  Seats,  and  Lawns,  the  Abbey,  and  the  Wood, 
And  Cots,  and  Hamlets,  and  faint  City-spire: 
The  Channel  there,  the  Islands  and  white  Sails, 
Dim  Coasts,  and  cloud-like  Hills,  and  shoreless  Ocean- 
It  seemed  like  Omnipresence!     God,  methought, 
Had  built  him  there  n  Temple :  the  whole  World 
Seemed  imaged  in  its  vast  circumference. 
No  wish  profaned  my  overwhelmed  Heart. 
Blest  hour !    It  was  a  Luxury, — to  be ! 

Ah!  quiet  dell !  dear  cot,  and  mount  sublime! 
I  was  constrained  to  quit  you.     Was  it  right, 
While  my  unnumbered  brethren  toiled  and  bled, 
That  I  should  dream  away  the  entrusted  hours 
On  rose-leaf  Beds,  pampering  the  coward  Heart 
With  feelings  all  too  delicate  for  use  ? 
Sweet  is  the  tear  that  from  some  Howard's  eye 
Drops  on  the  cheek  of  One  he  lifts  from  Earth : 
And  Ho  that  works  me  good  with  unmoved  face, 
Does  it  but  half:  he  chills  me  while  he  aids, 
My  Benefactor,  not  my  Brother  Man  ! 
Yet  even  this,  this  cold  Beneficence 
Praise,  praise  it,  O  iny  Sonl !  oft  as  thou  scann'st 
The  Sluggard  Pity's  vision-weaving  Tribe  ! 
Who  sigh  for  Wretchedness,  yet  shun  the  wretched, 
Nursing  in  some  delicious  solitude 
Their  slothful  loves  and  dainty  Sympathies ! 
I  therefore  go,  and  join  head,  heart,  and  band, 
Active  and  firm,  to  fight  the  bloodless  fight 
Of  Science,  Freedom,  and  tjieTriith  in  Christ. 


Yet  oft  whe*n  after  honourable  toil 
Rests  the  tired  mind,  and  waking  loves  to  dream, 
My  spirit  shall  revisit  thee,  dear  Cot ! 
Thy  Jasmin  and  thy  window-peeping  Rose, 
And  Myrtles  fearless  of  the  mild  sea-air. 
And  I  shall  sigh  fond  wishes— sweet  Abode ! 
Ah !— had  none  greater !    And  that  all  had  such ! 
It  might  be  so— but  the  time  is  not  yet. 
Speed  it,  O  Father !    Let  thy  Kingdom  come  ! 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  137 


TO  THE  REV.  GEORGE  COLERIDGE  OF  OTTERY 
ST.  MARY,  DEVON. 

WITH   SOME  POEMS. 

Notus  in  fratres  animi  paterni. 

HOR.  Carm.  lib.  i.  2. 

A  BLESSED  lot  hath  he,  who  having  passed 

His  youth  uiid  early  manhood  in  the  stir 

And  turmoil  of  the  world,  retreats  at  length, 

With  cares  that  move,  not  agitate  the  Heart, 

To  the  same  Dwelling  where  his  Father  dwelt ; 

And  haply  views  his  tottering  little  ones 

Embrace  those  aged  knees  and  climb  that  lap, 

On  which  first  kneeling  his  own  Infancy 

Lisped  its  brief  prayer.     Such,  O  my  earliest  Friend! 

Thy  lot,  and  such  thy  brothers  too  enjoy. 

At  distance  did  ye  climb  Life's  upland  road, 

Yet  cheered  and  cheering :  now  fraternal  Love 

Hath  drawn  you  to  one  centre.    Be  your  days 

Holy,  and  blest  and  blessing  may  ye  live ! 

To  me  the  Eternal  Wisdom  hath  dispensed 
A  different  fortune  and  more  different  mind — 
Me  from  the  spot  where  first  I  sprang  to  light 
Too  soon  transplanted,  ere  my  soul  had  fixed 
Its  first  domestic  loves ;  and  hence  through  Life 
Chasing  chance-started  Friendships.    A  brief  while 
Some  have  preserved  me  from  Life's  pelting  illsj 
But,  like  a  Tree  with  leaves  of  feeble  stem, 
If  the  clouds  lasted,  and  a  sudden  breeze 
Ruined  the  boughs,  they  on  my  head  at  once 
Dropped  the  collected  shower ;  and  some  most  false, 
False  and  fair  foliaged  as  the  Manchineel, 
Have  tempted  me  to  slumber  in  their  shade 
E'en  mid  the  storm ;  then  breathing  subtlest  damps, 
Mixed  their  own  venom  with  the  rain  from  Heaven, 
That  I  woke  poisoned !    But,  all  praise  to  Him 
Who  gives  us  all  things,  more  have  yielded  me 
Permanent  shelter ;  and  beside  one  Friend, 
Beneath  the  impervious  covert  of  one  Oak, 
I've  raised  a  lowly  shed,  and  know  the  names 
Of  Husband  and  of  Father;  nor  unhearing 
Of  that  divine  and  nightly- whispering  Voice, 
AVhich  from  my  childhood  to  maturer  years 
Spake  to  me  of  predestinated  wreaths, 
Bright  with  no  fading  colors ! 

Yet  at  times 

My  soul  is  sad,  that  I  have  roamed  through  life 
Still  most  a  Stranger,  most  with  naked  heart 


133  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

At  mine  own  home  and  birth-place :  chiefly  then, 

When  I  remember  thee,  my  earliest  Friend! 

Thee,  who  didst  watch  my  boyhood  and  my  youth ; 

Didst  trace  my  wanderings  with  a  Father's  eye  j 

And  boding  evil  yet  still  hoping  good 

Rebuked  each  fault,  and  over  all  my  woes 

Sorrowed  in  Silence!  He  who  counts  alone 

The  beatings  of  the  solitary  heart, 

That  Being  knows,  how  I  have  loved  thee  ever, 

Loved  as  a  brother,  as  a  Son  revered  thee ! 

Oh!  'tis  to  me  an  ever  new  delight, 

To  talk  of  thee  and  thine  :  or  when  the  blast 

Of  the  shrill  winter,  rattling  our  rude  sash, 

Endears  the  cleanly  hearth  and  social  bowl ; 

Or  when  as  now,  on  some  delicious  eve, 

We  in  our  sweet  sequestered  Orchard-Plot 

Sit  on  the  Tree  crooked  earth- ward ;  whose  old  boughs, 

That  hang  above  us  in  an  arborous  roof, 

Stirred  by  the  faint  gale  of  departing  May, 

Send  their  loose  blossoms  slanting  o'er  our  heads! 

Nor  dost  not  tlion  sometimes  recall  those  hours, 
When  with  the  joy  of  hope  thou  gavest  thine  ear 
To  my  wild  firstling-lays.     Since  then  my  song 
Hath  sounded  deeper  notes,  such  as  beseem 
Or  that  sad  wisdom  folly  leaves  behind", 
Or  such  as,  tuned  to  these  tumultuous  times, 
Cope  with  the  tempest's  swell! 

These  various  strains, 

Which  I  have  framed  in  many  a  various  mood, 
Accept,  my  Brother!  and  (for  some  perchance 
Will  strike  discordant  on  thy  milder  mind) 
If  aught  of  Error  or  intemperate  Truth 
Should  meetthiue  ear,  think  thou  that  riper  age 
Will  calm  it  down,  and  let  thy  Love  forgive  it! 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  FOUNTAIN  ON  A  HEATH. 

THIS  Sycamore,  oft  musical  with  Bees, — 

Such  Tents  the  Patriarchs  loved  !    O  long  unharmed 

May  all  its  aged  Boughs  o'er-canopy 

The  small  round  basin,  which  this  jutting  stone 

Keeps  pure  from  falling  leaves !  Long  may  the  Spring, 

Quietly  as  a  sleeping  Infant's  breath, 

Send  up  cold  waters  to  the  Traveller 

With  soft  and  even  Pulse!    Nor  ever  cease 

Yon  tiny  cone  of  Sand  its  soundless  Dance, 

Which  at  the  Bottom,  like  a  Fairy's  Page, 

As  merry  and  no  taller,  dances  still, 

Nor  wrinkles  the  smooth  Surface  of  the  Fount. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  139 

Here  Twilight  is  and  Coolness :  here  is  Moss, 
A  soft  Seat,  and  a  deep  and  ample  Shade, 
Thou  may'st  toil  far  aud  find  no  second  Tree, 
think,  Pilgrim,  here !  -  Here  rest!  and  if  thy  Heart 
Be  innocent,  here  too  shalt  thou  refresh 
Thy  Spirit,  listening  to  some  gentle  Sound, 
Or  passing  Gale  or  Hum  of  murmuring  Bees ! 


A  TOMBLESS  EPITAPH. 

'Tis  true,  Idoloclastes  Satyrane  ! 

(So  call  him,  for  so  mingling  Blame  with  Praise 

And  smiles  with  anxious  looks,  his  earliest  friends, 

Masking  his  birth-name,  wont  to  character 

His  wild-wood  fancy  and  impetuous  zeal,) 

?Tis  true  that,  passionate  for  ancient  truths 

And  honouring  with  religious  love  the  Great 

Of  elder  times,  he  hated  to  excess, 

With  an  unquiet  and  intolerant  scorn, 

The  hollow  puppets  of  an  hollow  Age, 

Ever  idolatrous,  and  changing  ever 

Its  worthless  Idols!     Learning,  Power,  and  Time, 

(Too  much  of  all)  thus  wasting  in  vain  war 

Of  fervid  colloquy.     Sickness,  'tis  true, 

Whole  years  of  weary  days,  besieged  him  close, 

Even  to  the  gates  and  inlets  of  his  life ! 

But  it  is  true,  no  less,  that  strenuous,  firm, 

And  with  a  natural  gladness,  he  maintained 

The  Citadel  uncouquered,  and  in  joy 

Was  strong  to  follow  the  delightful  Muse. 

For  not  a  hidden  Path,  that  to  the  Shades 

Of  the  beloved  Parnassian  forest  leads, 

Lurked  undiscovered  by  him;  not  a  rill 

There  issues  from  the  fount  of  Hippocrene, 

But  he  had  traced  it  upward  to  its  source, 

Through  open  glade,  dark  glen,  and  secret  dell. 

Knew  the  gay  wild  flowers  on  its  banks,  and  culled 

Its  med'cinable  herbs.     Yea,  oft  alone, 

Piercing  the  long-neglected  holy  cave, 

The  haunt  obscure  of  old  Philosophy, 

He  bade  with  lifted  torch  its  starry  walls 

Sparkle,  as  erst  they  sparkled  to  the  flame 

Of  odorous  Lamps  tended  by  Saint  and  Sage. 

O  framed  for  calmer  times  and  nobler  hearts ! 

O  studious  Poet,  eloquent  tor  truth  ! 

Philosopher!  contemning  wealth  and  death, 

Yet  docile,  childlike,  full  of  Life  and  Love! 

Here,  rather  than  on  monumental  stone, 

This  record  of  thy  worth  thy  Friend  inscribes, 

Thoughtful,  with  quiet  tears  upon  his  cheek. 


140  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


THIS  LIME-TREE  BOWER  MY  PRISON. 

In  the  June  of  1797,  some  long-expected  Friends  paid  a  visit  to 
the  Author's  Cottage;  and  on  the  morning  of  their  arrival,  he  met 
•with  an  accident,  which  disabled  him  from  walking  during  the 
whole  time  of  their  stay.  One  Evening,  when  they  had  left  him  for 
a  few  hours,  he  composed  the  following  lines  in  the  Garden-Bower. 

WELL,  they  are  gone,  and  here  must  I  remain, 
This  Lime-Tree  Bower  my  Prison !  I  ha1  ve  lost 
IBeauties  and  Feelings,  such  as  would  have  been 
pttost  sweet  to  my  remembrance  even  when  age 
jjlad  dimmed  mine  eyes  to  blindness !  They,  meanwhile, 
Friends,  whom  I  never  more  may  meet  again, 
On  springy  heath,  along  the  hill-top  edge, 
Wander  in  gladness,  and  wind  down,  perchance, 
To  that  still  roaring  dell,  of  which  I  told; 
The  roaring  dell,  o'er  wooded,  narrow,  deep, 

\  And  only  speckled  by  the  mid-day  Sun ; 

A  Where  its  slim  trunk,  the  Ash  from  rock  to  rock 
Flings  arching  like  a  bridge;— that  branchless  Ash, 
Unsunned  and  damp,  whose  few  poor  yellow  leaves 
Ne'er  tremble  in  the  gale,  yet  tremble  still, 
Fanned  by  the  water- fall !  and  there  my  friends 
Behold  the  dark  green  tile  of  long  lank  Weeds.* 
That  all  at  once  (a  most  fantastic  sight !) 
Still  nod  and  drip  beneath  the  dripping  edge 
Of  the  blue  clay-stone. 

Now,  my  Friends  emerge 

Beneath  the  wide  wide  Heaven — and  view  again 
The  many-steepled  track  magnificent 
Of  hilly  iields  and  meadows,  and  the  sea, 
With  some  fair  bark,  perhaps,  whose  Sails  light  up 
The  slip  of  smooth  clear  blue  betwixt  two  Isles 
Of  purple  shadow!     Yes !  they  wander  on 
In  gladness  all ;  butthou,  inethinks,  most  glad, 
My  gentle-hearted  Charles!  for  thou  hast  pined 
^Aud  hungered  after  Nature,  many  a  year, 
In  the  great  City  pent,  winning  thy  way 
With  sad  yet  patient  soul,  through  evil  and  pain 
And  strange  calamity!     Ah!  slowly  sink 
Behind  the  western  ridge,  thou  glorious  Sun ! 
Shine  in  the  slant  beams  of  the  sinking  orb 
Ye  purple  heath-flowers!  richlier  burn,  ye  clouds  ! 
Live  in  the  yellow  light,  ye  distant  groves! 
And  kindle,  thou  blue  Ocean  !     So  my  Friend 
Struck  with  deep  joy  may  stand,  as  I  have  stood, 
Silent  with  swimming  sense  ;  yea,  gazing  round 

*  OF  LONG  LANK  WEKDS.]  The  Asplenium  Soolopendrium,  called  in 
some  countries  the  Adder's  Tongue,  in  others  the  Hart's  Tongue; 
hut  Withering  gives  the  Adder's  Tongue  as  the  trivial  name  of  the 
Ophioglossum  only. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


141 


On  the  wide  landscape,  gaze  till  all  doth  seem 
Less  gross  than  bodily ;  and  of  such  hues 
As  veil  the  Almighty  Spirit,  when  he  makes 
Spirits  perceive  his  presence. 

A  delight 

Comes  sudden  on  my  heart,  and  I  am  glad 
As  1  myself  were  there  !    Nor  in  this  bower, 
This  little  lime-tree  bower,  have  I  not  marked 
Much  that  has  soothed  me.    Pale  beneath  the  blaze 
Hung  the  transparent  foliage  ;  and  I  watched 
Some  broad  and  sunny  leaf,  and  loved  to  see 
The  shadow  of  the  leaf  and  stem  above 
Dappling  its  sunshine !    And  that  Walnut-tree 
Was  richly  tinged,  and  a  deep  radiance  lay 
Full  on  the  ancient  Ivy,  which  usurps 
Those  fronting  elms,  and  now  with  blackest  mass 
Makes  their  dark  branches  gleam  a  lighter  hue 
Through  the  late  twilight :  and  though  now  the  Bat 
Wheels  silent  by,  and  not  a  Swallow  twitters, 
Yet  still  the  solitary  humble  Bee 
Sings  in  the  bean-flower!     Henceforth  I  shall  know 
That  Nature  ne'er  deserts  the  wise  and  pure, 
No  Plot  so  narrow,  be  but  Nature  there, 
No  waste  so  vacant,  but  may  well  employ 
/Each  faculty  of  sense,  and  keep  the  heart 
SAwake  to  Love  and  Beauty !  and  sometimes 
;Tis  well  to  be  bereft  of  promised  good, 
That  we  may  lift  the  Soul,  and  contemplate 
With  lively  joy  the  joys  we  cannot  share. 
My  gentle-hearted  Charles !  when  the  last  Rook 
Beat  its  straight  path  along  the  dusky  air 
Homewards,  I  blest  it!  deeming,  its  black  wing 
(Now  a  dim  speck,  now  vanishing  in  light) 
Had  crossed  the  mighty  Orb's  dilated  glory, 
While  thou%tood'st  gazing  ;  or  when  all  was  still, 
*Flew  creeking  o'er  thy  head,  and  had  a  charm 
For  thee,  my  gentle-hearted  Charles,  to  whom 
No  Sound  is  dissonant  which  tells  of  Life. 


TO  A  FRIEND 

WHO  HAD  DECLARED  HIS  INTENTION  OF  WRITING  NO 
MORE   POETRY. 

DEAR  Charles!  whilst  yet  thou  wert  a  babe  I  ween 
That  Genius  plunged  thee  in  that  wizard  fount 

*  FLEW  CREEKING.]  Some  months  after  I  had  written  this  line,  it 
gave  me  pleasure  to  observe  that  Bartram  had  observed  the  same 
circumstance  of  the  Savanna  Crane.  "When  these  Birds  move 
their  wings  in  flight,  their  strokes  are  slow,  moderate  and  regular; 
and  even  when  at  a  considerable  distance  or  high  above  us,  we 
plainly  hear  the  quill -feathers;  their  shafts  and  webs  upon  one  an- 
other creek  as  the  joints  or  working  of  a  vessel  in  a  tempestuous 


142  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Higlit  Castalie;  and  (sureties  of  thy  faith.) 
That  Pity  and  Simplicity  stood  by, 
And  promised  for  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  renounce 
The  world's  low  cares  and  lying  vanities, 
Steadfast  and  rooted  in  the  heavenly  Muse, 
And  washed  and  sanctified  to  Poesy. 
Yes — thou  wert  plunged,  but  with  forgetful  hand 
Held,  as  by  Thetis  erst  her  warrior  Son  : 
And  with  those  recreant  unbaptized  Heels 
Thou'rt  Hying  from  thy  bounden  Ministeries — 
So  sore  it  seeins  and  burthensome  a  task 
To  weave  unwithering  flowers  !  But  take  thou  heed  : 
For  thou  art  vulnerable,  wild-eyed  Boy, 
And  I  have  arrows*  mystically  dipped, 
Such  as  may  stop  thy  speed.    Is  thy  Burns  dead  ? 
And  shall  ho  die  unwept,  and  sink  to  Earth, 
11  Without  the  meed  of  one  melodious  tear  ?" 
Thy  Burns,  and  Nature's  own  beloved  Bard, 
Who  to  the  •'  Illustrioust  of  his  native  Land 
"  So  properly  did  look  for  Patronage." 
Ghost  of  Maecenas !  hide  thy  blushing  face ! 
They  snatched  him  from  the  Sickle  and  the  Plough- 
To  gauge  Ale-Firkins. 

Oh !  for  shame  return  ! 

On  a  bleak  Rock,  midway  the  Aouian  mount, 
There  stands  a  lone  and  melancholy  tree, 
Whose  aged  branches  to  the  midnight  blast 
Make  solemn  music :  pluck  its  darkest  bough, 
Ere  yet  the  unwholesome  Night-dew  be  exhaled, 
And  weeping  wreath  it  round  thy  Poet's  Tomb. 
Then  in  the  outskirts,  where  pollutions  grow, 
Pick  the  rank  henbane  and  the  dusky  flowers 
Of  night-shade,  or  its  red  and  tempting  fruit. 
These  witli  stopped  nostril  and  glove-guarded  hand 
Knit  in  nice  iutertexture,  so  to  twine 
The  Illustrious  Brow  of  Scotch  Nobility. 

1796. 


TO  A  GENTLEMAN. 
(W.  WORDSWORTH.) 

COMPOSED    ON    THE    NIGHT    AFTER    HIS    RECITATION    OF    A 
POEM  ON  THE  GRJWTH  OF  AN  INDIVIDUAL  MIND. 

I    FRIEND  of  the  \Vise !  and  Teacher  of  the  Good ! 
Into  my  heart  have  I  received  that  Lay 
More  than  historic  that  prophetic  Lay 

*  Vide  Find.  Olym.  ii.  1,  156. 

t  Verbatim  from  Burns's  dedication  of  bis  Poem  to  the  Nobility 
and  Gentry  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  143 

"Wherein  (high  theme  by  thee  first  sung  aright) 
Of  the  foundations  and  the  building  up 
Of  the  Human  Spirit,  thou  hast  dared  to  tell 
What  may  be  told,  to  the  understanding  mind 
Revealable ;  and  what  within  the  mind 
By  vital  Breathings,  like  the  secret  soul 
Of  vernal  growth,  oft  quickens  in  the  Heart 
j  Thoughts  all  too  deep  for  words ! — 

Theme  hard  as  high ! 

Of  smiles  spontaneous,  and  mysterious  fears 
(The  first-born  they  of  Reason  and  twin-birth) 
Of  tides  obedient  to  external  force, 
And  currents  self-determined,  as  might  seem, 
Or  by  some  inner  Power ;  of  moments  awful, 
Now  in  thy  inner  life  and  now  abroad, 
When  Power  streamed  from  thee,  and  thy  soul  received 
The  light  reflected,  as  a  light  bestowed — 
Of  Fancies  fair,  and  milder  hours  of  youth, 
Hyblean  murmurs  of  Poetic  Thought 
Industrious  in  its  Joy,  in  Vales  and  Glens, 
Native  or  outland,  Lakes  and  famous  Hills  ! 
Or  on  the  lonely  High-road,  when  the  Stars 
Were  rising ;  or  by  secret  Mountain-streams, 
The  Guides  and  the  Companions  of  thy  way ! 

Of  more  than  Fancy,  of  the  Social  Sense 
Distending  wide,  and  Man  beloved  as  Man, 
Where  France  in  all  her  Towns  lay  vibrating 
Even  as  a  Bark  becalmed  beneath,  the  Burst 
Of  Heaven's  immediate  Thunder,  when  no  cloud 
Is  visible,  or  shadow  on  the  Main. 
For  thou  wert  there,  thine  own  brows  garlanded, 
Amid  the  tremor  of  a  realm  aglow, 
/  Amid  a  mighty  nation  jubilant, 
i  When  from  the  general  Heart  of  Human  kind 
\    Hope  sprang  forth  like  a  full-born  Deity  ! 

Of  that  dear  Hope  afflicted  and  struck  down, 

So  summoned  homeward,  thenceforth  calm  and  sure 

From  the  dread  Watch-Tower  of  man's  absolute  Self, 

With  light  unwaning  on  her  eyes,  to  look 

Far  on — herself  a  glory  to  behold, 

The  Angel  of  the  vision !    Then  (last  strain ) 

Of  Duty,  chosen  Laws  controlling  choice, 

Action  and  Joy! — An  orphic  song  indeed, 

A  song  divine  of  high  and  passionate  thoughts, 

To  their  own  Music  chaunted ! 

O  great  Bard ! 

Ere  yet  that  last  strain  dying  awed  the  air, 
With  steadfast  eye  I  viewed  thee  in  the  choir 
Of  ever-enduring  men.    The  truly  Great 


144  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Have  all  one  age,  and  from  one  visible  space 

Shed  influences  !     They,  both  in  power  and  act, 

Are  permanent,  and  Time  is  not  with  them, 

Save  as  it  worketh/or  them,  they  in  it. 

Nor  less  a  sacred  Eoll,  than  those  of  old, 

And  to  be  placed,  as  they,  with  gradual  fame 

Among  the  Archives  of  Mankind,  thy  work 

Makes  audible  a  linked  lay  of  Truth, 

Of  Truth  profound  a  sweet  continuous  lay, 

Not  learnt,  but  native,  her  own  natural  notes ! 

Ah !  as  I  listened  with  a  heart  forlorn 

The  pulses  of  my  Being  beat  anew  : 

And  even  as  Life  returns  upon  the  Drowned, 

Life's  joy  rekindling  roused  a  throng  of  Pains — 

Keen  Pangs  of  Love,  awakening  as  a  babe 

Turbulent,  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart ; 

And  Fears  self-willed,  that  shunned  the  eye  of  Hope 

And  Hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself  from  Fear; 

Sense  of  past  Youth,  and  Manhood  come  in  vain, 

And  Genius  given,  and  Knowledge  won  in  vain; 

And  all  which  I  had  culled  in  Wood-walks  wild, 

And  all  which  patient  roil  had  reared,  and  all, 

Commune  with  tlice  had  opened  out — but  Flowers 

Strewed  on  my  corse,  and  borne  upon  my  Bier, 

In  the  same  Coffin,  for  the  self-same  Grave! 

That  way  no  more !  and  ill  beseems  it  me, 
Who  came  a  welcoiner  in  Herald's  Guise, 
Singing  of  Glory,  and  Futurity, 
To  wander  back  on  such  unhealthful  road, 
Plucking  the  poisons  of  self-harm  !     And  ill 
Such  intertwine  beseems  triumphal  wreaths 
Strewn  before  thy  advancing ! 

Nor  do  thou, 

Sage  Bard!  impair  the  memory  of  that  hour 
Of  thy  communion  with  my  nobler  mind 
By  Pity  or  Grief,  already  felt  too  long ! 
Nor  let  my  words  import  more  blame  than  needs. 
The  tumult  rose  and  ceased:  for  Peace  is  nigh 
Where  wisdom's  voice  has  found  a  listening  heart. 
Amid  the  howl. of  more  than  wintry  storms, 
The  Halcyon  hears  the  voice  of  vernal  Hours 
Already  on  the  wing. 

Eve  following  eve, 

Dear  tranquil  time,  when  the  sweet  sense  of  Home 
Is  sweetest !  moments  for  their  own  sake  hailed 
And  more  desired,  more  precious  for  thy  song, 
In  silence  listening,  like  a  devout  child, 
My  soul  lay  passive,  by  thy  various  strain 
Driven  as  in  surges  now  beneath  the  stars, 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  145 

With  momentary  Stars  of  my  own  birth, 
Fair  constellated  Form,*  still  darting  off 
Into  the  darkness ;  now  a  tranquil  sea, 
Outspread  and  bright,  yet  swelling  to  the  Moon. 

And  when — 0  friend  !  my  comforter  and  guide ! 
Strong  in  thyself,  and  powerful  to  give  strength — 
Thy  long-sustained  song  finally  closed, 
And  thy  deep  voice  hath  ceased — yet  thou  thyself 
"VVert  still  before  my  eyes,  and  round  us  both 
That  happy  vision  of  beloved  Faces — 
Scarce  conscious,  and  yet  conscious  of  its  close 
I  sate,  my  being  blended  in  one  thought 
(Thought  was  it  ?  or  Aspiration  ?  or  Resolve  ?) 
Absorbed,  yet  hanging  stUl  upon  the  sound — 
And  when  I  rose,  I  found  myself  in  prayer. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  : 

A  CONVERSATION   POEM. 

WRITTEN  IN  APKIL,   1798. 

No.  cloud,  no  relique  of  the  sunken  day 

Distinguishes  the  West,  no  long  thin  slip 

Of  sullen  light,  no  obscure  trembling  hues. 

Come,  we  will  rest  on  this  old  mossy  bridge ! 

You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath, 

But  hear  no  mumuriug :  it  flows  silently, 

O'er  its  soft  bed  of  verdure.     All  is  still, 

A  balmy  night!  and  though  the  stars  be  dim, 

Yet  let  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 

That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall  find 

A  pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stars. 

And  hark !  the  Nightingale  begins  its  song, 

"  Most  musical,  most  melancholy  "  Bird  !t 

A  melancholy  Bird  f    Oh  !  idle  thought ! 

In  nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy. 

But  some  night-wandering    man,   whose  heart  was 

pierced 
With  the  remembrance  of  a  grievous  wrong, 

*  "A  beautiful  white  cloud  of  Foam  at  momentary  intervals 
roursed  by  the  side  of  the  Vessel  with  a  Roar,  and  little  stars  of 
flame  danced  and  sparkled  and  went  out  in  it :  and  every  now  and 
then  light  detachments  of  this  white  cloud-like  foam  darted  off 
from  the  vessel's  side,  each  with  its  own  small  constellation,  over 
the  Sea,  and  scoured  out  of  sight  like  a  Tartar  Troop  over  a  Wilder 
ness."— THE  FRIEND,  p.  220. 

t  "MOST  MUSICAL.  MOST  MELANCHOLY."]  This  passage  in  Milton 
possesses  an  excellence  far  superior  to  that  of  mere  description. 
It  is  spoken  in  the  character  of  the  melancholy  man,  and  has  there- 
fore a  dramatic  propriety.  The  author  makes  this  remark,  to 
rescue  himself  from  the  charge  of  having  alluded  with  levity  to  a 
line  in  Milton  :  a  charge  than  which  none  could  be  more  painful  to 
him,  except  perhaps  that  of  having  ridiculed  his  Bible. 
G 


146  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Or  slow  distemper,  or  neglected  love, 

(And  so  poor  Wretch !  tilled  all  things  with  himself, 

And  made  all  gentle  sounds  tell  back  the  tale 

Of  his  own  sorrow)  he,  and  such  as  he, 

First  named  these  notes  a  melancholy  strain : 

And  many  a  poet  echoes  the  conceit ; 

Poet  who  hath  been  building  up  the  rhyme 

When  he  had  better  far  have  stretched  his  limbs 

Beside  a  brook  in  mossy  forest-dell, 

By  Sun  or  Moon-light,  to  the  influxes 

Of  shapes  and  sounds  and  shifting  elements 

Surrendering  his  whole  spirit,  of  bis  song 

And  of  his  fame  forgetful !  so  his  fame 

Should  share  in  Nature's  immortality, 

A  venerable  thing !  and  so  his  song 

Should  make  all  Nature  lovelier,  and  itself 

Be  loved  like  Nature!     But  'twill  not  be  so ; 

And  youths  and  maidens  most  poetical, 

Who  lose  the  deepening  twilights  of  the  spring 

In  ball-rooms  and  hot  theatres,  they  still 

Full  of  meek  sympathy  must  have  their  sighs 

O'er  Philomela's  pity-pleading  strains. 

My  Friend,  and  thou,  our  Sister!  we  have  learnt 
A  different  lore :  we  may  not  thus  profane 
Nature's  sweet  voices,  always  full  of  love 
And  joyance!    'Tis  the  merry  Nightingale 
That  crowds,  and  hurries,  and  precipitates 
With  fast  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes, 
As  he  were  fearful  that  an  April  night 
Would  be  too  short  for  him  to  utter  forth 

,  His  love-chant,  and  disburtheu  his  full  soul 

I  Of  all  its  music! 

And  I  know  a  grove 
Of  large  extent,  hard  by  a  castle  huge, 
Which  the  great  lord  inhabits  not ;  and  so 
This  grove  is  wild  with  tangling  underwood, 
And  the  trim  walks  are  broken  up,  and  grass, 
Thin  grass  and  king-cups  grow  within  the  paths. 
But  never  elsewhere  in  one  place  I  knew 
So  many  Nightingales ;   and  far  and  near, 
In  wood  and  thicket,  over  the  wide  grove, 
They  answer  and  provoke  each  other's  song, 
With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagings, 
And  murmurs  musical  and  swift  jug  jug, 
And  one  low  piping  Sound  more  sweet  than  all — 
Stirring  the  air  with  such  an  harmony, 
That  should  you  close  your  eyes,  you  might  almost 
Forget  it  was  not  day!     On  Moonlight  bushes, 
Whose  dewy  leaflets  are  but  half  disclosed, 
You  may  perchance  behold  them  ou  the  twigs, 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  147 

Their  bright,  bright  eyes,  their  eyes  both  bright  and  full, 
Glistening,  while  many  a  glow-worm  in  the  shade 
Lights  up  her  love-torch. 

A  most  gentle  Maid, 
Who  dwelleth  in  her  hospitable  home 
Hard  by  the  castle,  and  at  latest  eve 
(Even  like  a  Lady  vowed  and  dedicate 
To  something  more  than  Nature  in  the  grove) 
Glides  through  the  pathways ;  she  knows  all  their  notes, 
That  gentle  Maid !  and  oft  a  moment's  space, 
What  time  the  Moon  was  lost  behind  a  cloud, 
Hath  heard  a  pause  of  silence;  till  the  Moon 
Emerging,  hath  awakened  earth  and  sky 
With  one  sensation,  and  these  wakeful  Birds 
Have  all  burst  forth  in  Choral  minstrelsy, 
As  if  some  sudden  Gale  had  swept  at  once 
An  hundred  airy  harps!     And  she  hath  watched 
Many  a  Nightingale  perched  giddily 
On  blossomy  twig  still  swinging  from  the  breeze, 
And  to  that  motion  tune  his  wanton  song 
Like  tipsy  joy  that  reels  with  tossing  head. 

Farewell,  O  Warbler !  till  to-morrow  eve, 
And  you,  my  friends!  farewell,  a  short  farewell ! 
We  have  been.loitering  long  and  pleasantly, 
And  now  for  our  dear  homes. — That  strain  again  ? 
Full  fain  it  would  delay  me !     My  dear  babe, 
Who,  capable  of  no  articulate  sound, 
Mars  all  things  with  his  imitative  lisp, 
How  he  would  place  his  hand  beside  his  ear, 
His  little  hand,  the  small  forefinger  up, 
And  bid  us  listen!     And  I  deem  it  wise 
To  make  him  Nature's  Play-mate.     He  knows  well 
The  evening-star;  and  once,  when  he  awoke 
In  most  distressful  mood  (some  inward  pain 
Had  made  up  that  strange  thing,  an  infant's  dream) 
I  hurried  with  him  to  our  orchard-plot, 
And  he  beheld  the  Moon,  and,  hushed  at  once, 
•Suspends  his  sobs,  and  laughs  most  silently, 
While  his  fair  eyes,  that  swam  with  undropped  tears 
Did  glitter  in  the  yellow  moonbeam !     Well ! — 
It  is  a  father's  tale:  But  if  that  Heaven 
Should  give  me  life,  his  childhood  shall  grove  up 
Familiar  with  these  songs,  that  with  the  night 
He  may  associate  joy!    Once  more  farewell, 
Sweet  Nightingale!    Once  more  my  friends !  farewell. 


148  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

THE  Frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
Unhelped  by  any  wind.    The  owlet's  cry 
Came  loud — and  hark,  again !  loud  as  before. 
\  The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest, 

\  Have  left  me  to  that  solitude,  which  suits 
Abstruser  musings :  save  that  at  my  side 
My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 

I  'Tis  calm  indeed!  so  calm,  that  it  disturbs 
And  vexes  meditation  with  its  strange 
And  extreme  silentness.     Sea,  hill,  and  wood, 
This  populous  village!     Sea,  and  hill,  and  wood, 
With  all  the  numberless  goings  on  of  life, 
Inaudible  as  dreams!  the  thin  blue  flame 
Lies  on  my  low  burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not ; 
Only  that  film,  which  fluttered  on  the  grate, 
Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing. 
Methinks,  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me  who  live, 
Making  it  a  companionable  form, 
To  which  the  living  spirit  in  our  frame, 
That  loves  not  to  behold  a  lifeless  thing, 
Transfuses  its  own  pleasures,  its  own  will. 

How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing  mind, 
Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars, 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger!  and  as  oft 
With  unclosed  lids,  already  had  I  dreamt 
Of  my  sweet  birth-place,  and  the  old  church-tower, 
Whose  bells,  the  poor  man's  only  music,  rang 
From  morn  to  evening,  all  the  hot  Fair-day, 
So  sweetly,  that  they  stirred  and  haunted  me 
With  a  wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  ear 
Most  like  articulate  sounds  of  things  to  come ! 
So  gazed  I,  till  the  soothing  things,  1  dreamt, 
Lulled  ine  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolonged  my  dreams ! 
And  so  I  brooded  all  the  following  morn, 
Awed  by  the  stern  preceptor's  face,  mine  eye 
Fixed  with  mock  study  on  my  swimming  book  : 
Save  if  the  door  half  opened,  and  I  snatched 
A  hasty  glance,  and  still  my  heart  leaped  up, 
For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger's  face, 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  beloved, 
My  play-mate  when  we  both  were  clothed  alike ! 

Dear  Babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my  side, 
Whose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this  deep  calm, 
Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
.    And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought ! 
My  Babe  so  beautiful!  it  thrills  niy  heart 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  149 

With,  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee, 
And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore 
And  in  far  other  scenes !    For  I  was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim, 
And  saw  nought  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 
But  thou,  my  babe  !  shalt  \vander  like  a  breeze 
By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the  clouds, 
Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shores 
And  mountain  crags:  so  shalt  thou  see  and  hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language,  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher!  he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask. 

Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to  thee, 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw ;  whether  the  eve-drops  fall 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 
Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  Moon. 


IV.— ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 
THE  THREE  GRAVES. 

A  FRAGMENT  OF  A  SEXTON'S  TALE. 

[THE  Author  has  published  the  following  humble  fragment,  en 
couraged  by  the  decisive  recommendation  of  more  than  one  "of  our 
most  celebrated  living  Poets.  The  language  was  intended  to  he 
dramatic:  that  is  suited  to  the  narrator;  and  the  metre  corresponds 
to  the  homeliness  of  the  diction.  It  is  therefore  presented  as  the 
fragment,  not  of  a  Poem,  but  of  a  common  Ballad-tale.  Whether 
this  is  sufficient  to  justify  the  adoption  of  such  a  style,  in  any  metri- 
cal corn  position  not  professedly  ludicrous,  the  Author  is  himself  in 
some  doubt.  At  all  events,  it  is  not  presented  as  Poetry,  and  it  is  in 
no  way  connected  with  the  Author's  judgment  concerning  Poetic 
diction.  Its  merits,  if  any,  are  exclusively  Psychological.  The 
story  which  must  be  supposed  to  have  been  narrated  in  the  first  and 
second  part  is  as  follows. 

Edward,  a  young  farmer,  meets  at  the  house  of  Ellen  her  bosom- 
friend  Mary,  and  commences  an  acquaintance,  which  ends  in  a 
mutual  attachment.  With  her  consent,  and  by  the  advice  of  their 
common  friend  Ellen,  he  announces  his  hopes  and  intentions  to 
Mary's  Mother,  a  widow-woman  bordering  on  her  fortieth  year,  and 
from  constant  health,  the  possession  of  a  competent  property,  and 
from  having  had  no  other  children  but  Mary  and  another  daughter 
(the  Father  died  in  their  infancy,)  retaining,  for  the  greater  part,  her 
personal  attractions  and  comeliuess  of  appearance,  but  a  woman 


150  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

of  low  education  and  violent  temper.  The  answer  which  she  at 
once  returned  to  Edward's  application  was  remarkable— "  Well, 
Edward!  you  are  a  handsome  young  fellow,  and  you  shall  have 
my  Daughter."  From  this  time  all  their  wooing  passed  under  the 
Mother's  eye;  and,  in  fine,  she  became  herself  enamoured  of  her 
future  Son-in-law,  and  practised  every  art,  both  of  endearment 
and  of  calumny,  to  transfer  his  affections  from  her  daughter  to 
herself.  (The  outlines  of  the  Tale  are  positive  Facts,  and  of  no 
very  distant  date,  though  the  author  has  purposely  altered  the 
names  and  the  scene  of  action,  as  well  as  invented  the  characters 
of  the  parties  and  the  detail  of  the  incidents.)  Edward,  however, 
though  perplexed  by  her  strange  detractions  from  her  daughter's 
good  qualities,  yet  in  the  innocence  of  his  own  heart  still  mistaking 
her  increasing  fondness  for  motherly  affection  ;  she  at  length, 
overcome  by  her  miserable  passion,  after  much  abuse  of  Mary's 
temper  and  moral  tendencies,  exclaimed  with  violent  emotion — 
O  Edward  indeed,  indeed,  she  is  not  fit  for  you— she  has  not  a 
heart  to  love  you  as  you  deserve.  It  is  I  that  love  you!  Marry 
me,  Edward!  and  I  will  this  very  day  settle  all  my  property  on 
you.— The  Lover's  eyes  were  now  opened,  and  thus  taken  by  sur- 
prise, whether  from  the  effect  of  the  horror  which  he  felt,  acting 
as  it  were  hysterically  on  his  nervous  system,  or  that  at  the  first 
moment  he  lost  the  sense  of  guilt  of  the  proposal  in  the  feeling 
of  its  strangeness  and  absurdity,  he  flung  her  from  him  and  burst 
into  a  fit  of  laughter.  Irritated  by  this  almost  to  frenzy,  the 
woman  fell  on  her  knees,  and  in  a  loud  voice  that  approached  to 
a  scream,  she  prayed  for  a  Curse  both  on  him  and  on  her  own 
Child.  Mary  happened  to  be  in  the  room  directly  above  them,  heard 
Edward's  laugh  and  her  Mother's  blasphemous  prayer  and  fainted 
away.  He,  hearing  the  fall,  ran  upstairs,  and  taking  her  in  his 
arms,  carried  her  off  to  Ellen's  home ;  and  after  some  fruitless 
attempts  on  her  part  toward  a  reconciliation  with  her  Mother,  she 
was  married  to  him. — And  here  the  third  part  of  the  Tale  begins. 

I  was  not  led  to  chuse  this  story  from  any  partiality  to  tragic, 
much  less  to  monstrous  events  (though  at  the  time  that  I  composed 
the  verses,  somewhat  more  than  twelve  years  ago,  I  was  less 
averse  to  such  subjects  than  at  present),  but  from  finding  in  it  a 
striking  proof  of  the  possible  effect  on  the  imagination,  from  an 
Idea  violently  and  suddenly  impressed  on  it.  I  had  been  reading 
Bryan  Edwards's  account  of  the  effect  of  the  Oby  Witchcraft  on 
the  Negroes  in  the  West-Indies,  and  Hearne's  deeply  interesting 
Anecdotes  of  similar  workings  on  the  imagination  of  the  Copper 
Indians  (those  of  my  Readers  who  have  it  in  their  power  will  be 
well  repaid  for  the  trouble  of  referring  to  those  works  for  the 
passages  alluded  to)  and  I  conceived  the  design  of  shewing  that 
instances  of  this  kind  are  not  peculiar  to  savage  or  barbarous  tribes, 
and  of  illustrating  the  mode  in  which  the  mind  is  affected  in  these 
cases,  and  the  progress  and  symptoms  of  the  morbid  action  on 
the  fancy  from  the  beginning. 

The  Tale  is  supposed  to  be  narrated  by  an  old  Sexton,  in  a.  country 
church-yard,  to  a  Traveller  whose  curiosity  had  been  awakened  by 
the  appearance  of  three  graves,  close  by  each  other,  to  two  only  of 
which  there  were  grave-stones.  On  the  first  of  these  was  the 
name,  and  dates,  as  usual:  on  the  second,  no  name,  but  only  a 
date,  and  the  words,  The  Mercy  of  God  is  infinite.] 


THE  Grapes  upon  the  Vicar's  wall 
Were  ripe  as  ripe  could  be ; 

And  yellow  leaves  in  Sun  and  Wind 
Were  falling  from  the  Tree. 

On  the  hedge-elms  in  the  narrow  lane 
Still  swung  the  spikes  of  corn : 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  151 

Dear  Lord  !  it  seems  but  yesterday— 
Young  Edward's  marriage-morn. 

Up  through  that  wood  behind  the  church, 

There  leads  from  Edward's  door 
A  mossy  track,  all  over  boughed, 

For  half  a  mile  or  more. 

And  from  their  house-door  by  that  track 

The  Bride  and  Bridegroom  went ; 
Sweet  Mary,  though  she  was  not  gay, 

Seemed  cheerful  and  con  tent. 

But  when  they  to  the  churchyard  came, 

I've  heard"  poor  Mary  say, 
As  soon  as  she  stepped  into  the  Sun, 

Her  heart  it  died  away. 

And  when  the  Vicar  joined  their  hands, 

Her  limbs  did  creep  and  freeze ; 
But  when  they  prayed,  she  thought  she  saw 

Her  mother  on  her  knees. 

And  o'er  the  church-path  they  returned — 

I  saw  poor  Mary's  back, 
Just  as  she  stepped  beneath  the  boughs 

Into  the  mossy  track. 

Her  feet  upon  the  mossy  track 

The  married  maiden  set : 
That  moment — I  have  heard  her  say — 

She  wished  she  could  forget. 

The  shade  o'er-flushed  her  limbs  with  heat — 

Then  came  a  chill  like  death  : 
And  when  the  merry  bells  rang  out, 

They  seemed  to  stop  her  breath. 

Beneath  the  foulest  Mother's  curse 

No  child  could  ever  thrive : 
A  Mother  is  a  Mother  still, 

The  holiest  thing  alive. 

So  five  months  passed :  the  Mother  still 

Would  never  heal  the  strife; 
But  Edward  was  a  loving  man 

And  Mary  a  fond  wife. 

"My  sister  may  not  visit  us, 
My  mother  says  her  nay : 

0  Edward !  you  are  all  to  me, 

1  wish  for  your  sake  I  could  be 
More  lifesome  and  more  gay. 

I'm  dull  and  sad !  indeed,  indeed 

I  know  I  have  no  reason ! 
Perhaps  I  am  not  well  in  health, 

And  'tis  a  gloomy  season." 


152  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

;Twas  a  drizzly  time — no  ice,  no  snow ! 

And  on  the  few  fine  days 
She  stirred  not  out,  lest  she  might  meet 

Her  Mother  in  the  ways. 

But  Ellen,  spite  of  miry  ways 
And  weather  dark  and  dreary, 

Trudged  every  day  to  Edward's  house, 
And  made  them  all  more  cheery. 

Oh!  Ellen  was  a  faithful  Friend, 

More  dear  than  any  Sister! 
As  cheerful  too  as  singing  lark ; 
And  she  ne'er  left  them  till  'twas  dark, 

And  then  they  always  missed  her. 

And  now  Ash-Wednesday  came — that  day 

But  few  to  Church  repair: 
For  on  that  day  you  know  we  read 

The  Commination  prayer. 

Our  late  old  Vicar,  a  kind  man, 

Once,  Sir,  he  said  to  me, 
He  wished  that  service  was  clean  out 

Of  our  good  Liturgy. 

The  Mother  walked  into  the  church — 

To  Ellen's  seat  she  went : 
Though  Ellen  always  kept  her  church 

All  church-days  during  Lent. 

And  gentle  Ellen  welcomed  her 
With  courteous  looks  and  mild : 

Thought  she  "  what  if  her  heart  should  melt, 
And  all  be  reconciled !" 

The  day  was  scarcely  like  a  day — 
The  clouds  were  black  outright : 

And  many  a  night,  with  half  a  Moon, 
I've  seen  the  church  more  light. 

The  wind  was  wild ;  against  the  glass 

The  rain  did  beat  and  bicker ; 
The  church-tower  swinging  over  head, 

You  scarce  could  hear  the  Vicar  1 

And  then  and  there  the  Mother  knelt, 

And  audibly  she  cried — 
tf  Oh  I  may  a  clinging  curse  consume 

This  woman  by  my  side  ! 

O  hear  me,  hear  me,  Lord  in  Heaven, 

Although  you  take  my  life — 
O  curse  this  woman,  at  whose  house 

Young  Edward  woo'd  his  wife. 

By  night  and  day,  in  bed  and  bower, 
O  let  her  cursed  be!  !!" 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  153 

So  having  prayed,  steady  and  slow, 

She  rose  up  from  her  knee ! 
And  left  the  church,  nor  e'er  again 

The  church-door  entered  she. 

I  saw  poor  Ellen  kneeling  still, 

So  pale !  I  guessed  not  why  : 
When  she  stood  up,  there  plainly  was 

A  trouble  in  her  eye. 

And  when  the  prayers  were  done,  we  all 

Came  round  and  asked  her  why : 
Giddy  she  seemed,  and,  sure,  there  was 

A  trouble  in  her  eye. 

But  ere  she  from  the  church-door  stepped 

She  smiled  and  told  us  why : 
"  It  was  a  wicked  woman's  curse," 

Quoth  she,  "  and  what  care  I  ?" 

She  smiled,  and  smiled,  and  passed  it  off 

Ere  from  the  door  she  stept — 
But  all  agree  it  would  have  been 

Much  better  had  she  wept. 

And  if  her  heart  was  not  at  ease, 

This  was  her  constant  cry — 
"It  was  a  wicked  woman's  curse — 

God's  good,  aad  what  care  I  ?" 

There  was  a  hurry  in  her  looks, 

Her  struggles  she  redoubled: 
"  It  was  a  wicked  woman's  curse, 

And  why  should  I  be  troubled  ?" 

These  tears  will  come — I  dandled  her 

When  'twas  the  merest  fairy — 
Good  creature !  and  she  hid  it  all : 

She  told  it  not  to  Mary. 

But  Mary  heard  the  tale  :  her  arms 

Round  Ellen's  neck  she  threw  ; 
"  Oh  Ellen,  Ellen,  she  cursed  me. 

And  now  she  hath  cursed  you!" 

I  saw  young  Edward  by  himself 

Stalk  fast  adowu  the  lee, 
He  snatched  a  stick  from  every  fence, 

A  twig  from  every  tree. 

He  snapped  them  still  with  hand  or  knee, 

And  then  away  they  flew  ! 
As  if  with  his  uneasy  limbs 

He  knew  not  what  to  do ! 

You  see,  good  sir !  that  single  hill  ? 

His  farm  lies  underneath : 
G* 


154  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

He  heard  it  there,  he  heard  it  all, 
And  only  gnashed  his  teeth. 

Now  Ellen  was  a  darling  love 

In  all  his  joys  and  cares  : 
And  Ellen's  name  and  Mary's  name 
Fast-linked  they  both  together  carne, 

Whene'er  he  said  his  prayers. 

And  in  the  moment  of  his  prayers 

He  loved  them  both  alike : 
Yea,  both  sweet  names  with  one  sweet  joy 

Upon  his  heart  did  strike ! 

He  reach'd  his  home,  and  by  his  looks 

They  saw  his  inward  strife  : 
And  they  clung  round  him  with  their  arms, 

Both  Ellen  and  his  wife. 

And  Mary  could  not  check  her  tears, 

So  on  his  breast  she  bowed ; 
Then  Frenzy  melted  into  Grief, 

And  Edward  wept  aloud. 

Dear  Ellen  did  not  weep  at  all, 

But  closelier  did  she  cling, 
And  turned  her  face  and  looked  as  if 

She  saw  some  frightful  thing. 

PART  IV. 

To  see  a  man  tread  over  Graves 

I  hold  it  no  good  mark ; 
>Tis  wicked  in  the  Sim  and  Moon, 

And  bad  luck  in  the  dark! 

You  see  that  Grave  I    The  Lord  he  gives, 

The  Lord,  he  takes  away : 
O  Sir !  the  child  of  my  old  age 

Lies  there  as  cold  as  clay. 

Except  that  grave,  you  scarce  see  one 

That  was  not  dug  by  me ; 
Fd  rather  dance  upon  'em  all 

Than  tread  upon  these  three ! 

"  Aye,  Sexton !  'tis  a  touching  tale." 

You,  Sir !  are  but  a  lad ; 
This  month  I'm  in  my  seventieth  year, 

And  still  it  makes  me  sad. 

And  Mary's  sister  told  it  me, 
For  three  good  hours  and  more ; 

Though  I  had  heard  it,  in  the  main, 
From  Edward's  self,  before. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  155 

Well !  it  passed  off!  the  gentle  Ellen 

Did  well  nigh  dote  on  Mary  ; 
And  she  went  oftener  than  before, 
And  Mary  loved  her  more  and  more : 

She  managed  all  the  dairy. 

To  market  she  on  market-days, 

To  church  on  Sundays  came  ; 
All  seemed  the  same :  all  seemed  so,  Sir ! 

But  all  was  not  the  same  ! 

Had  Ellen  lost  her  mirth  ?    Oh !  no ! 

But  she  was  seldom  cheerful ; 
And  Edward  looked  as  if  lie  thought 

That  Ellen's  mirth  was  fearful. 

When  by  herself,  she  to  herself 

Must  sing  some  merry  rhyme ; 
She  could  not  now  be  glad  for  hours, 

Yet  silent  all  the  time. 

And  when  she  soothed  her  friend,  through  all 

Her  soothing  words  'twas  plain 
She  had  a  sore  grief  of  her  own, 

A  haunting  in  her  brain. 

And  oft  she  said,  I'm  not  grown  thin ! 

And  then  her  wrist  she  spanned : 
And  once  when  Mary  was  down-cast, 

She  took  her  by  the  hand, 
And  gazed  upon  her,  and  at  first 

She  gently  pressed  her  hand; 

Then  harder,  till  her  grasp  at  length 

Did  gripe  like  a  convulsion  ! 
Alas !  said  she,  we  ne'er  can  be 

Made  happy  by  compulsion ! 

And  once  her  both  arms  suddenly 

Round  Mary's  neck  she  flung, 
And  her  heart  panted,  and  she  felt 

The  words  upon  her  tongue. 

She  felt  them  coming,  but  no  power 

Had  she  the  words  to  smother; 
And  with  a  kind  of  shriek  she  cried, 

"  Oh  Christ!  you're  like  your  Mother!" 

So  gentle  Ellen  now  no  more 

Could  make  this  sad  house  cheery; 
And  Mary's  melancholy  ways 

Drove  Edward  wild  and  weary. 


156  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Lingering  he  raised  his  latch  at  eve, 
Though  tired  in  heart  and  limb : 

He  loved  no  other  place,  and  yet 
Home  was  no  home  to  him." 

One  evening  he  took  up  a  book, 

And  nothing  in  it  read  ; 
Then  flung  it  down,  and  groaning  cried, 

"  Oh !  Heaven !  that  I  were  dead." 

Mary  looked  up  into  his  face, 

And  nothing  to  him  said  ; 
She  tried  to  smile,  and  on  his  arm 

Mournfully  leaned  her  head. 

And  he  burst  into  tears,  and  fell 

Upon  his  knees  in  prayer: 
"  Her  heart  is  broke !     6  God !  my  grief, 

It  is  too  great  to  bear ! " 

'Twas  such  a  foggy  time  as  makes 

Old  Sextons,  Sir !  like  me, 
Rest  on  their  spades  to  cough  ;  the  spring 

Was  late  uncommonly. 

And  then  the  hot  days,  all  at  once, 
They  came,  we  knew  not  how  : 

You  looked  about  for  shade,  when  scarce 
A  leaf  was  on  a  bough. 

It  happened  then  ('twas  in  the  bower 

A  furlong  up  the  wood  : 
Perhaps  you  know  the  place,  and  yet 

I  scarce  know  how  you  should) 

No  path  leads  thither,  'tis  not  nigh 

To  any  pasture-plot  j 
But  clustered  near  the  chattering  brook, 

Lone  hollies  marked  the  spot. 

Those  hollies  of  themselves  a  shape 

As  of  an  arbour  took, 
A  close,  round  arbour ;  and  it  stands 

Not  three  strides  from  a  brook. 

Within  this  arbour,  which  was  still 

With  scarlet  berries  hung, 
Were  these  three  friends,  one  Sunday  morn, 

Just  as  the  first  bell  rung. 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  a  brook,  'tis  sweet 

To  hear  the  Sabbath-bell, 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  them  both  at  once, 

Deep  in  a  woody  dell. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  157 

His  limbs  along  the  moss,  his  head 

Upon  a  mossy  heap, 
With  shut- up  senses,  Edward  lay  : 
That  brook  e'en  on  a  working  day 

Might  chatter  one  to  sleep. 

And  he  had  passed  a  restless  night, 

And  was  not  well  in  health ; 
The  women  sat  down  by  his  side, 

And  talked  as  'twere  by  stealth. 

"  The  Sun  peeps  through  the  close  thick  leaves, 

See,  dearest  Ellen !  see ! 
Tis  in  the  leaves,  a  little  Sun, 

No  bigger  than  your  ee ; 

A  tiny  Sun,  and  it  has  got 

A  perfect  glory  too  : 

Ten  thousand  threads  and  hairs  of  light, 
Make  up  a  glory,  gay  and  bright, 

Round  that  small  orb,  so  blue." 

And  then  they  argued  of  those  rays, 

What  colour  they  might  be  : 
Says  this,  "  they're  mostly  green  ;"  says  that, 

u  They're  amber-like  to  me." 

So  they  sat  chatting,  while  bad  thoughts, 

Were  troubling  Edward's  rest ; 
But  soon  they  heard  his  hard  quick  pants, 

And  the  thumping  in  his  breast. 

"  A  Mother,  too ! "  these  self-same  words 

Did  Edward  mutter  plain  ; 
His  face  was  drawn  back  on  itself, 

With  horror  and  huge  pain. 

Both  groaned  at  once,  for  both  knew  well 

What  thoughts  were  in  his  mind ; 
When  he  waked  up,  and  stared  like  one 

That  hath  been  just  struck  blind. 

He  sat  upright ;  and  ere  the  dream 

Had  had  time  to  depart, 
"  O  God,  forgive  me !"  (he  exclaimed) 

"  I  have  torn  out  her  heart." 

Then  Ellen  shrieked,  and  forthwith  buret 

Into  ungentle  laughter ; 
And  Mary  shivered,  where  she  sat 

And  never  she  smiled  after. 

Carmen  reliquum  in  futurum  tempus  relegatum.      To-morrow  I 
and  To-morrow  !  and  To  morrow  I 


158  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


DEJECTION: 

AN  ODE. 

Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  Moon, 
With  the  old  Moon  in  her  arms; 
And  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  Master  dear! 
We  shall  have  a  deadly  storm. 

BALLAD  OP  SIR  PATRICK  SPENCE. 

I. 

WELL!  If  the  Bard  was  weather-wise,  who  made 
The  grand  old  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
This  night,  so  tranquil  now,  will  not  go  hence 
Unroused  by  winds,  that  ply  a  busier  trade 
Than  those  which  mould  yon  cloud  in  lazy  flakes, 
Or  the  dull  sobbing  draft,  that  moans  and  rakes 
Upon  the  strings  of  this  /Eolian  lute, 
Which  better  far  were  mute. 
For  lo!  the  New-moon  winter-bright! 
And  overspread  with  phantom  light, 
(With  swimming  phantom  light  o'erspread 
But  rimmed  and  circled  by  a  silver  thread) 
I  see  the  old  Moon  in  her  lap,  foretelling 

The  coming  on  of  rain  and  squally  blast. 
And  oh!  that  even  now  the  gust  were  swelling, 

And  the  slant  night-shower  driving  loud  and  fast ! 
Those  sounds  which  oft  have  raised  me,  whilst  they  awed, 

And  sent  my  soul  abroad, 

Might  now  perhaps  their  wonted  impulse  give, 
Might  startle  this  dull  pain,  and  make  it  move  and  live ! 

n. 

A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and  drear, 
A  stifled,  drowsy,  uuimpassioned  grief, 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief, 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear — 

0  Lady !  in  this  wan  and  heartless  mood, 
To  other  thoughts  by  yonder  throstle  woo'd, 

All  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  serene, 
Have  I  been  gazing  on  the  w'estern  sky, 

And  its  peculiar  tint  of  yellow  green: 
And  still  I  gaze — and  with  how  blank  an  eye  I 
And  those  thin  clouds,  in  flakes  and  bars, 
That  give  away  their  motion  to  the  stars; 
Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them  or  between, 
Now  sparkling,  now  bedi mined,  but  always  seen  : 
Yon  crescent  Moon  as  fixed  as  if  it  grew 
In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of  blue ; 

1  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair 

I  see,  not  feel  how  beautiful  they  are ! 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  159 

m. 

My  genial  spirits  fail, 

And  what  can  these  avail 
To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  off  my  breast  ? 

It  were  a  vain  endeavour, 

Though  I  should  gaze  for  ever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west : 
I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  passion  and  the  life,  whose  fountains  are  within. 

IV. 

Oh  Lady !  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 

And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live : 

Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her  shroud  ! 

And  would  we  uught  behold,  of  higher  worth, 
Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor  loveless  ever-anxious  crowd, 

Ah !  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth, 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  Earth — 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 

A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth, 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element ! 

V. 

O  pure  of  heart !  thou  need'st  not  ask  of  me 
What  this  strong  music  in  the  soul  may  be  ! 
What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist, 
This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  luminous  mist, 
This  beautiful  and  beauty-making  power. 

Joy,  virtuous  Lady  !  Joy  that  ne'er  was  given, 
Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest  hour, 
Life,  and  Life's  Effluence,  Cloud  at  once  and  Shower, 
Joy,  Lady  !  is  the  spirit  and  the  power, 
Which  wedding  Nature  to  us  gives  in  dower 

A  new  Earth  and  new  Heaven, 
Undreamt  of  by  the  sensual  and  the  proud — 
Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  Joy  the  luminous  cloud — 

We  in  ourselves  rejoice ! 
And  thence  flows  all  that  charms  or  ear  or  sight, 

All  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice, 
All  colours  a  suffusion  from  that  light. 


VI. 

There  was  a  time  when,  though  my  path  was  rough, 
This  joy  within  me  dallied  with  distress. 

And  all  misfortunes  were  but  as  the  stuff 
Whence  Fancy  made  me  dreams  of  happiness : 

For  hope  grew  round  me,  like  the  twining  vine, 

And  fruits,  and  foliage  not  my  own,  seemed  mine. 


160  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

But  now  afflictions  bow  me  down  to  earth  : 
Nor  care  I  that  they  rob  me  of  my  mirth, 

But  oh !  each  visitation 
Suspends  what  nature  gave  me  at  my  birth, 

My  shaping  spirit  of  Imagination. 
For  not  to  think  of  what  I  needs  must  feel, 

But  to  be  still  and  patient,  all  I  can ; 
And  haply  by  abstruse  research  to  steal 

From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural  Man — 

This  was  my  sole  resource,  my  only  plan : 
Till  that  which  suits  a  part  infects  the  whole, 
And  now  is  almost  grown  the  habit  of  my  Soul. 

VII. 

Hence,  viper  thoughts,  that  coil  around  my  mind, 

Reality's  dark  dream ! 
I  turn  from  you  and  listen  to  the  wind, 

Which  long  has  raved  unnoticed.     What  a  scream 
Of  agony  by  torture  lengthened  out 
That  lute  sent  forth!  Thou  Wind,  that  ravest  without, 

Bare  crag,  or  mountain-tairn,*  or  blasted  tree, 
Or  pine-grove  whither  woodman  never  clomb, 
Or  lonely  house,  long  held  the  witches'  homo, 
Methiuks  were  fitter  instruments  for  thee, 
Mad  Lutanist !  who  in  this  month  of  showers, 
Of  dark  brown  gardens,  and  of  peeping  flowers, 
Mak'st  Devils'  yule,  with  worse  than  wintry  song, 
The  blossoms,  buds,  and  timorous  leaves  among. 

Thou  Actor,  perfect  in  all  tragic  sounds ! 
Thou  mighty  Poet,  e'en  to  Frenzy  bold ! 
What  tell'st  thou,  now  about  ? 
'Tis  of  the  Rushing  of  an  Host  in  rout, 
With  groans  of  trampled  men,  with  smarting  wounds — 
At  once  they  groan  with  pain,  and  shudder  with  the  cold! 
But  hush!  there  is  a  pause  of  deepest  silence! 

And  all  that  noise,  as  of  a  rushing  crowd, 
With  groans,  and  tremulous  shudderings — all  is  over- 
It  tells  another  tale,  with  sounds  less  deep  and  loud ! 
A  tale  of  less  affright, 
And  tempered  with  delight, 
As  Otway's  self  had  framed  the  tender  lay — 
'Tis  of  a  little  child 
Upon  a  lonesome  wild, 

Not  far  from  home,  but  she  hath  lost  her  way  : 
And  now  moans  low  in  bitter  grief  and  fear, 
And  now  screams  loud,  and  hopes  to  make  her  mother 
hear. 

*  Tairn  is  a  small  lake,  generally  if  not  always  applied  to  the  lakes 
up  in  the  mountains,  and  which  are  the  feeders  of  those  in  the 
vallies.  This  address  to  the  Storm-wind  will  not  appear  extravagant 
to  those  who  have  heard  it  at  night,  and  in  a  mountainous  country. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  161 


VIII. 

'Tis  midnight,  but  small  thoughts  have  I  of  sleep : 
Full  seldom  may  my  friend  such  vigils  keep  ! 
Visit  her,  gentle  Sleep  !  with  wiDgs  of  healing, 

And  may  this  storm  be  but  a  mountain-birth, 
May  all  the  stars  haug  bright  above  her  dwelling, 

Silent  as  though  they  watched  the  sleeping  Earth ! 
With  light  heart  may  she  rise, 
Gay  fancy,  cheerful  eyes, 

Joy  lift  her  spirit,  joy  attune  her  voice  : 
To  her  may  all  things  live,  from  Pole  to  Pole, 
Their  life  the  eddying  of  her  living  soul ! 

O  simple  spirit,  guided  from  above, 
Dear  Lady !  friend  devoutest  of  my  choice, 
Thus  mayest  thou  ever,  evermore  rejoice. 


ODE  TO  GEORGIANA,  DUCHESS  OF  DEVONSHIRE. 

ON  THE  TWENTY-FOURTH  STANZA  IN  HER    "  PASSAGE  OVER 
MOUNT  GOTHARD." 

"  And  hail  the  Chapel  1  hail  the  Platform  wild, 

Where  Tell  directed  the  avenging  Dart, 
With  well  strung  arm,  that  first  preserved  his  Child, 

Then  aimed  the  arrow  at  the  Tyrant's  heart." 

SPLENDOUR'S  fondly  fostered  child  ! 
And  did  you  hail  the  Platform  wild, 

Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 

Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  ? 
O  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure ! 
Whence  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure  I 

Light  as  a  dream  your  days  their  circlets  ran, 
From  all  that  teaches  Brotherhood  to  Man 
Far,  far  removed !  from  want,  from  hope,  from  fear ! 
Enchanting  music  lulled  your  infant  ear, 
Obeisance,  praises  soothed  your  infant  heart : 

Emblazonments  and  old  ancestral  crests, 
With  many  a  bright  obtrusive  form  of  art, 

Detained  your  eye  from  nature  :  stately  vests, 
That  veiling  strove  to  deck  your  charms  divine, 
Rich  viands  and  the  pleasurable  wine, 
Were  yours  unearned  by  toil :  nor  could  you  see 
The  unenjoy ing  toiler's  misery. 
And  yet,  free  Nature's  uncorrupted  child, 
You  hailed  the  Chapel  and  the  Platform  wild, 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the.  shaft  of  Tell ! 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

O  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure ! 
Whence  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

There  crowd  your  finely-fibred  frame, 

All  living  faculties  of  bliss ; 
And  Genius  to  your  cradle  came, 
His  forehead  wreathed  with  lambent  flame, 
And  bending  low,  with  godlike  kiss 
Breath'd  in  a  more  celestial  life; 
But  boasts  not  many  a  fair  compeer 

A  heart  as  sensitive  tt)  joy  and  fear  ? 
And  some,  perchance,  might  wage  au  equal  strife, 
Some  few,  to  nobler  being  wrought, 
Co-rivals  in  the  nobler  gift  of  thought. 
Yet  these  delight  to  celebrate 
Laurelled  War  and  plumy  State ; 
Or  in  verse  and  music  dress 
Tales  of  rustic  happiness—  • 

Pernicious  Tales !  insidious  Strains! 
That  steel  the  rich  man's  breast, 
And  mock  the  lot  unhlest, 
The  sordid  vices  and  the  abject  pains, 
Which  evermore  must  be 
The  doom  of  Ignorance  and  Penury ! 
But  you,  free  Nature's  uncorrupted  child, 
You  hailed  the  chapel  and  the  Platform  wild, 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 

0  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure ! 
Where  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

You  were  a  Mother !  That  most  holy  name, 
Which  Heaven  and  Nature  bless, 

1  may  not  vilely  prostitute  to  those 
Whose  Infants  owe  them  less 

Than  the  poor  Caterpillar  owes 

Its  gaudy  Parent  Fly. 
You  were  a  Mother !  at  your  bosom  fed 

The  Babes  that  loved  you.    You,  with  laughing  eye, 
Each  twilight-thought,  each  nascent  feeling  read, 
Which  you  yourself  created.    Oh !  delight ! 
A  second  time  to  be  a  Mother, 

Without  the  Mother's  bitter  groans  : 
Another  thought,  and  yet  another, 

By  touch,  or  taste,  by  looks  or  tones 
O'er  the  growing  Sense  to  roll, 
The  Mother  of  your  infant's  Soul ! 
The  Angel  of  the  Earth,  who,  while  he  guides 

His  chariot-planet  round  the  goal  of  day, 
All  trembling  gazes  on  the  Eye  of  God, 

A  moment  turned  his  awful  face  away  : 
And  as  he  viewed  you,  from  his  aspect  sweet 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  1G3 

New  influences  in  your  being  rose, 
Blest  Intuitions  and  Communions  fleet 
With  living  Nature,  in  her  joys  and  woes!     , 
Thenceforth  your  soul  rejoiced  to  see 
The  shrine  of  social  Liberty  ! 
O  beautiful !     O  Nature's  child  ! 
'Twas  thence  you  hailed  the  Platform  wild, 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 
O  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 
Thence  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure. 


ODE    TO    TRANQUILLITY. 

TRANQUILLITY  !  thou  better  name 

Than  all  the  family  of  Fame ! 

Thou  ne'er  wilt  leave  my  riper  age 

To  low  intrigue,  or  factious  rage  : 

For  oh !  dear  child  of  Thoughtful  Truth, 

To  thee  I  gave  my  early  youth, 
And  left  the  bark,  and  blest  the  steadfast  shore, 
Ere  yet  the  Tempest  rose  and  scared  me  with  its  roar. 

Who  late  and  lingering  seeks  thy  shrine, 
On  him  but  seldom,  power  divine, 
Thy  spirit  rests !     SATIETY 
And  SLOTH,  poor  counterfeits  of  thee, 
Mock  the  tired  worldling.    Idle  Hope 
And  dire  Remembrance  interlope, 
To  vex  the  feverish  slumbers  of  the  mind  : 
The  bubble  floats  before,  the  spectre  stalks  behind. 

But  me  thy  gentle  hand  will  lead 
At  morning  through  the  accustomed  mead ; 
And  in  the  sultry  summer's  heat 
Will  build  me  up  a  mossy  seat, 
And  when  the  gust  of  Autumn  crowds 
And  breaks  the  busy  moonlight  clouds, 
Thou  best  the  thought  canst  raise,  the  heart  attune, 
Light  as  the  busy  clouds,  calm  as  the  gliding  Moon . 

The  feeling  heart,  the  searching  soul, 

To  thee  I  dedicate  the  whole ! 

And  while  within  myself  I  trace 

The  greatness  of  some  future  race, 

Aloof  with  hermit-eye  I  scan 

The  present  works  of  present  man — 
A  wild  and  dream-like  trade  of  blood  and  guile, 
Too  foolish  for  a  tear,  too  wicked  for  a  smile  ! 


164  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


TO.  A  YOUNG  FRIEND, 

ON    HIS   PROPOSING  TO  DOMESTICATE    WITH   THE    AUTHOR. 
COMPOSED  m  1796. 

A  MOUNT,  not  wearisome  and  bare  and  steep, 

But  a  green  mountain  variously  up-piled, 
Where  o'er  the  jutting  rocks  soft  mosses  creep, 
Or  coloured  lichens  with  slow  oosing  weep ; 

Where  cypress  and  the  darker  yew  start  wild ; 
And  'mid  the  summer  torrent's  gentle  dash 
Dance  brightened  the  red  clusters  of  the  ash ; 

Beneath  whose  boughs,  by  those  still  sounds  beguiled, 
Calm  Pensiveness  might  muse  herself  to  sleep ; 

Till  haply  startled  by  some  fleecy  dam, 
That  rustling  on  the  bushy  cliffc  above, 
With  melancholy  bleat  of  anxious  love, 

Made  meek  inquiry  for  her  wandering  lamb : 

Such  a  green  mountain  'twere  most  sweet  to  climb, 
E'en  while  the  bosom  ached  with  loneliness — 
How  more  than  sweet,  if  some  dear  friend  should  bless 

The  adventurous  toil,  and  up  the  path  sublime 
Now  lead,  now  follow  :  the  glad  landscape  round, 
Wide  and  more  wide,  increasing  without  bound  ! 

O  then 'twere  loveliest  sympathy,  to  mark 
The  berries  of  the  half-uprooted  ash 
Dripping  and  bright ;  and  list  the  torrent's  dash, — 

Beneath  the  cypress,  or  the  yew  more  dark, 
Seated  at  ease,  on  some  smooth  mossy  rock ; 
In  social  silence  now,  and  now  to  unlock 
The  treasured  heart ;  arm  linked  in  friendly  arm, 
Save  if  the  one,  his  muse's  witching  charm 
Muttering  brow-bent,  at  rawatched  distance  lag; 

Till  high  o'er  head  his  beckoning  friend  appears, 
And  from  the  forehead  of  the  topmost  crag 

Shouts  eagerly :  for  haply  there  uprears 
That  shadowing  PINE  its  old  romantic  limbs, 

Which  latest  shall  detain  the  enamoured  sight 
Seen  from  below,  when  eve  the  valley  dims, 

Tinged  yellow  with  the  rich  departing  light ; 

And  haply,  basoned  in  some  unsunned  cleft, 
A  beauteous  spring,  the  rock's  collected  tears, 
Sleeps  sheltered  there,  scarce  wrinkled  by  the  gale  ! 

Together  thus,  the  world's  vain  turmoil  left, 
Stretched  on  the  crag,  and  shadowed  by  the  pine, 

And  bending  o'er  the  clear  delicious  fount, 
Ah !  dearest  youth !  it  were  a  lot  divine 
To  cheat  our  noons  in  moralizing  mood, 
While  west-winds  fanned  our  temples  toil-bedewed': 

Then  downwards  slope,  oft  pausing,  from  the  mount, 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  165 

To  some  lone  mansion,  in  some  woody  dale, 
Where  smiling  with  blue  eye,  DOMESTIC  BLISS 
Gives  this  the  Husband's,  that  the  Brother's  kiss ! 

Thus  rudely  versed  in  allegoric  lore, 
The  Hill  of  Knowledge  I  essayed  to  trace  ; 
That  verdurous  hill  with  many  a  resting-place, 
And  many  a  stream,  whose  warbling  waters  pour 

To  glad,  and  fertilize  the  subject  plains; 
That  hill  with  secret  springs,  and  nooks  untrod, 
And  many  a  fancy-blest  and  holy  sod 

Where  INSPIRATION,  his  diviner  strains 
Low  murmuring,  lay  ;  and  starting  from  the  rocks 
Stiff  evergreens,  whose  spreading  foliage  mocks 
Want's  barren  soil,  and  the  bleak  frosts  of  age, 
And  Bigotry's  mad  fire-invoking  rage  ! 
O  meek  re  tiring  spirit!  we  will  climb, 
Cheering  and  cheered,  this  lovely  hill  sublime  ; 

And  from  the  stirring  world  up-lifted  high, 
(Whose  noises,  faintly  wafted  on  the  wind, 
To  quiet  musings  shall  attune  the  mind, 

And  oft  the  melancholy  theme  supply) 

There,  while  the  prospect  through  the  gazing  eye 

Pours  all  its  healthful  greenness  on  the  soul, 
We'll  smile  at  wealth,  and  learn  to  smile  at  fame, 
Our  hopes,  our  knowledge,  and  our  joys  the  same, 

As  neighbouring  fountains  image,  each  the  whole: 
Then  when  the  mind  hath  drank  its  fill  of  truth, 

We'll  discipline  the  heart  to  pure  delight, 
Rekindling  sober  joy's  domestic  flame. 
They  whom  I  love  shall  love  thee.    Honoured  youth ! 

Now  may  Heaven  realize  this  -vision  bright ! 


LINES  TO  W.  L.,  ESQ. 

WHILE   HE   SANG   A  SONG    TO    PURCELL'S   MUSIC. 

WHILE  my  young  cheek  retains  its  healthful  hues, 

And  I  have  many  friends  who  hold  me  dear : 

L !  methinks,  I  would  not  often  hear 

Such  melodies  as  thine,  lest  I  should  lose 
All  memory  of  the  wrongs  and  sore  distress, 

For  which  my  miserable  brethren  weep  ! 

But  should  uncomforted  misfortunes  steep 
My  daily  bread  in  tears  and  bitterness  ; 
And  if  at  death's  dread  moment  I  should  lie 

With  no  beloved  face  at  my  bedside, 
To  fix  the  last  glance  of  my  closing  eye, 

Methinks,  such  strains,  breathed  by  my  angel-guide, 
Would  make  me  pass  the  cup  of  anguish  by, 

Mix  with  the  blest,  nor  know  that  I  had  died ! 


166  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  MAN  OF  FORTUNE, 

WHO  ABANDONED   HIMSELF   TO   AN  INDOLENT 
AND   CAUSELESS   MELANCHOLY. 

HENCE  that  fantastic  wantonness  of  woe, 

O  Youth  to  partial  fortune  vainly  dear! 
To  plundered  Want's  half-sheltered  hovel  go, 

Go,  and  some  hunger-bitten  Infant  hear 

Moan  haply  in  a  dying  Mother's  ear : 
Or  when  the  cold  and  dismal  fog-  damps  hrood 
O'er  the  rank  church-yard  with  sear  elm-leaves  strewed, 
Pace  round  some  widow's  grave,  whose  dearer  part 

Was  slaughtered,  where  o'er  his  uncoffined  limbs 
The  flocking  flesh-birds.screanied!  Then,  while  thy  heart, 

Groans,  and  thine  eye  a  fiercer  sorrow  dims, 
Know  (and  the  truth  shall  kindle  thy  young  mind) 
What  nature  makes  thee  mourn,  she  bids  thee  heal ! 

O  abject !  if,  to  sickly  dreams  resigned, 
All  effortless  thou  leave  life's  common-weal 

A  prey  to  Tyrants,  Murderers  of  Mankind. 


SONNET  TO  THE  RIVER  OTTER. 

DEAR  native  Brook !  wild  Streamlet  of  the  West! 

How  many  various-fated  years  have  past, 

What  happy,  and  what  mournful  hours,  since  last 
I  skimmed  the  smooth  thin  stone  along  thy  breast, 
Numbering  its  light  leaps !  yet  so  deep  imprest 
Sink  the  sweet  scenes  of  childhood,  that  mine  eyes 

I  never  shut  amid  the  sunny  ray, 
But  straight  with  all  their  tints  thy  waters  rise, 

Thy  crossing  plank,  thy  marge  with  willows  grey, 
And  bedded  sand  that  veined  with  various  dies 
Gleamed  through  thy  bright  transparence !  On  my  way, 

Visions  of  childhood !  oft  have  yo  beguiled 
Lone  manhood's  cares,  yet  waking  fondest  sighs : 

Ah !  that  once  more  I  were  a  careless  child ! 


SONNET      , 

TO  A  FRIEND  WHO   ASKED,  HOW  I   FELT  WHEN  THE  NURSE 
FIRST  PRESENTED  MY  INFANT  TO  ME. 

CHARLES!  my  slow  heart  was  only  sad,  when  first 

I  scanned  that  face  of  feeble  infancy : 
For  dimly  on  my  thoughtful  spirit  burst 

All  I  had  been,  and  all  my  child  might  be ! 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  167 

But  when  I  saw  it  on  its  Mother's  arm, 
And  hanging  at  her  bosom  (she  the  while 
Bent  o'er  its  features  with  a  tearful  smile) 

Then  I  was  thrilled  and  melted,  and  most  warm 

Impressed  a  Father's  kiss :  and  all  beguiled 
Of  dark  remembrance  and  presageful  fear, 
I  seemed  to  see  an  angel-form  appear — 

'Twas  even  thine,  beloved  woman  mild ! 
So  for  the  Mother's  sake  the  Child  was  dear, 

And  dearer  was  the  Mother  for  the  Child. 


SONNET. 

COMPOSED  ON  A  JOURNEY  HOMEWARD  J   THE  AUTHOR  HAV- 
ING RECEIVED  INTELLIGENCE  OF  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  SON, 

SEPTEMBER  20,   1796. 

OFT  o'er  my  brain  does  that  strange  fancy  roll 

Which  makes  the  present  (while  the  flash  doth  last) 
Seem  a  mere  semblance  of  some  unknown  past, 
Mixed  with  such  feelings,  as  perplex  the  soul 
Self-questioned  in  her  sleep :  and  some  have  said  * 
We  lived,  ere  yet  this  robe  of  Flesh  we  wore. 

0  my  sweet  baby  ?  when  I  reach  my  door, 
If  heavy  looks  should  tell  me  thou  art  dead, 
(As  sometimes,  through  excess  of  hope,  I  fear) 

1  think  that  I  should  struggle  to  believe 
Thou  wert  a  spirit,  to  this  nether  sphere 

Sentenced  for  some  more  venial  crime  to  grieve  ; 
Didst  scream,  then  spring  to  meet  Heaven's  quick  re- 
prieve, 
While  we  wept  idly  o'er  thy  little  bier ! 


EPITAPH  ON  AN  INFANT. 

ITS  balmy  lips  the  Infant  blest 
Relaxing  from  its  Mother's  breast, 
How  sweet  it  heaves  the  happy  sigh 
Of  innocent  Satiety ! 

And  such  my  Infant's  latest  sigh ! 
O  tell,  rude  stone !  the  passer  by, 
That  here  the  pretty  babe  doth  lie, 
Death  sang  to  sleep  with  Lullaby. 

*  Hv  TTOV  TjuxuH'  i)  tyvxt)  -npiv  fv  Tu>6e  TOO  av&p<>>TTiv<>>  etSei  yeve 

PLAT.  IN 


1G8  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


THE    VIRGIN'S    CRADLE-HYMN. 

COPIED   FROM  A  PRINT  OF  THE   VIRGIN,   IN  A  CATHOLIC 
VILLAGE   IN  GERMANY. 

DORMI,  Jesu!  Mater  ridet, 
Quae  tam  dulcem  somnum  videt, 

Dormi,  Jesu!  blaudule! 
Si  non  donnis,  Mater  plorat, 
Inter  fila  cantans  orat 

Blande,  veni,  somnule. 

ENGLISH. 

Sleep,  sweet  babe !  my  cares  beguiling : 
Mother  sits  beside  thee  smiling: 

Sleep,  my  darliug,  tenderly  I 
If  them  sleep  not,  mother  mourneth, 
Singing  as  her  wheel  she  turneth : 

Coine,  soft  slumber,  balmily! 


TELL'S    BIRTH-PLACE. 

IMITATED  FROM   STOLBERG. 
I. 

MARK  this  holy  chapel  well ! 
The  Birth-place,  this,  of  WILLIAM  TELL. 
Here,  where  stands  God's  altar  dread, 
Stood  his  parents'  marriage-bed. 

n. 

Here  first,  an  infant  to  her  breast, 
Him  his  loving  mother  prest ; 
And  kissed  the  babe,  and  blessed  the  day, 
And  prayed  as  mothers  used  to  pray. 

ni. 

"  Vouchsafe  him  health,  O  God !   and  give 
The  Child  thy  servant  still  to  live!" 
But  God  had  destined  to  do  more 
Through  him,  than  through  an  armed  power. 

IV. 

God  gave  him  reverence  of  laws, 

Yet  stirring  blood  in  Freedom's  cause — 

A  spirit  to  his  rocks  akin, 

The  eye  of  the  Hawk,  and  the  fire  therein  ! 

v. 

To  Nature  and  to  Holy  writ 
Alone  did  God  the  boy  commit 


COLERIDGE. 


Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 
And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

The  Ancient  Mariner,  page  8. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  169 

Where  flashed  and  roared  the  torrent,  oft 
His  soul  found  wings,  and  soared  aloft ! 

VI. 

The  straining  oar  and  chamois  chase 
Had  formed  his  limbs  to  strength  and  grace : 
On  wave  and  wind  the  hoy  would  toss, 
Was  great,  nor  knew  how  great  he  was! 

VII. 

He  knew  not  that  his  chosen  hand, 
Made  strong  by  God,  his  native  land 
Would  rescue  from  the  shameful  yoke 
Of  Slavery the  which  he  broke  1 


MELANCHOLY. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

STRETCH'D  on  a  mouldered  Abbey's  broadest  wall 
Where  ruining  ivies  propped  the  ruins  steep — 
Her  folded  arms  wrapping  her  tattered  pall, 
Had  MELANCHOLY  mus'd  herself  to  sleep. 
The  fern  was  press'd  beneath  her  hair, 
The  dark  green  Adder's  Tongue*  was  there ; 
And  still  as  past  the  flagging  sea-gale  weak, 
The  long  lank  leaf  bowed  fluttering  o'er  her  cheek. 

That  pallid  cheek  was  flushed  :  her  eager  look 
Beamed  eloquent  in  slumber!  Inly  wrought, 
Imperfect  sounds  her  moving  lips  forsook, 
And  her  bent  forehead  worked  with  troubled  thought. 
Strange  was  the  dream 


A    CHRISTMAS    CAROL. 
I. 

THE  Shepherds  went  their  hasty  way, 

And  found  the  lowly  stable-shed 
Where  the  Virgin-Mother  lay  : 

And  now  they  checked  their  eager  tread  ; 
For  to  the  Babe,  that  at  her  bosom  clung, 
A  Mother's  song  the  Virgin  Mother  sung. 

ii. 

They  told  her  how  a  glorious  light, 
Streaming  from  a  heavenly  throng, 

*  A  botanical  mistake.    The  plant  which  the  poet  here  describes 
is  called  the  Hart's  Tongue. 
H 


170  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Around  them  shone,  suspending  night ! 
While  sweeter  than  a  Mother's  song, 
Blest  Angels  heralded  the  Saviour's  hirth, 
Glory  to  God  on  high !  and  Peace  on  Earth. 

in. 
She  listened  to  the  tale  divine, 

And  closer  still  the  Babe  she  pressed  ; 
And  while  she  cried,  the  Babe  is  mine! 
The  milk  rushed  faster  to  her  breast : 
Joy  rose  within  her,  like  a  summer's  morn  ; 
Peace,  Peace  on  Earth !  tbe  Prince  of  Peace  is  born. 

IV. 

Thou  Mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

Poor,  simple,  and  of  low  estate  ! 
That  Strife  should  vanish,  Battle  cease, 
O  why  should  this  thy  soul  elate  ? 

Sweet  Music's  loudest  note,  the  Poet's  story, 

Didst  thou  ne'er  love  to  hear  of  Fame  and  Glory  t 

v. 

And  is  not  War  a  youthful  King, 

A  stately  Hero  clad  in  Mail  ? 
Beneath  his  footsteps  laurels  spring  ; 

Him  Earth's  majestic  monarchs  hail 
Their  Friend,  their  Playmate!  and  his  bold  bright  eye 
Compels  the  maiden's  love-confessing  sigh. 

VI. 

"  Tell  this  in  some  more  courtly  scene, 

"  To  maids  and  youths  in  robes  of  state ! 
"  I  am  a  woman  poor  and  mean, 

"  And  therefore  is  my  Soul  elate. 
"  War  is  a  ruffian,  all  with  guilt  denied, 
"  That  from  the  aged  Father  tears  his  child ! 

VII. 

"  A  murderous  fiend,  by  fiends  adored, 

"  He  kills  the  Sire  and  starves  the  Son  ; 
"The  Husband  kills,  and  from  her  board  » 

"  Steals  all  his  Widow's  toil  had  won  ; 
"  Plunders  God's  world  of  beauty  ;  rends  away 
"  All  safety  from  the  Night,  all  comfort  from  the  Day. 

VIII. 

"  Then  wisely  is  my  soul  elate, 

"  That  Strife  should  vanish,  Battle  cease  : 
"  I'm  poor  and  of  a  low  estate, 

"The  Mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace. 
"  Joy  rises  in  me,  like  a  summer's  morn  : 
"Peace,  Peace  on  Earth,  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born." 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES.  171 

HUMAN  LIFE. 

ON  THE   DENIAL  OF  IMMORTALITY. 

IF  dead,  we  cease  to  be ;  if  total  gloom 

Swallow  up  life's  brief  flash  for  aye,  we  fare 
As  summer-gusts,  of  sudden  birth  and  doom, 

Whose  sound  and  motion  not  alone  declare, 
But  are  their  whole  of  being !     If  the  Breath 

Bo  Life  itself,  and  not  its  Task  and  Tent, 
If  even  a  soul  like  Milton's  can  know  death ; 

O  Man !  thou  vessel  purposeless,  unmeant, 
Yet  drone-hive  strange  of  phantom  purposes  ! 

Surplus  of  nature's  dread  activity, 
Which,  as  she  gazed  on  some  nigh-finished  vase, 
Retreating  slow,  with  meditative  pause, 

She  formed  witlurestless  hands  unconsciously  ! 
Blank  accident !.  nothing's  anomaly  ! 

If  rootless  thus,  thus  substanceless  thy  state, 
Go,  weigh  thy  dreams,  and  bo  thy  Hopes,  thy  Fears, 
The  counter- weights ! — Thy  Laughter  and  thy  Tears 

Mean  but  themselves,  each  fittest  to  create, 
And  to  repay  the  other !    Why  rejoices 

Thy  heart  with  hollow  joy  for  hollow  good  ? 

Why  cowl  thy  face  beneath  the  Mourner's  hood, 
Why  waste  thy  sighs,  and  thy  lamenting  voices, 

Image  of  Image,  Ghost  of  Ghostly  Elf, 
That  such  a  thing  as  thou  feel'st  warm  or  cold  ? 
Yet  what  and  whence  thy  gain,  if  thou  withhold 

These  costless  shadows  of  thy  shadowy  self? 
Be  sad  !  be  glad!  be  neither!  seek,  or  shun ! 
Thou  hast  no  reason  why  !    Thou  canst  have  none, 
Thy  being's  being  is  contradiction. 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE   GODS. 

IMITATED  FROM   SCHILLER. 

NEVER,  believe  me, 
Appear  the  Immortals, 

Never  alone: 

Scarce  had  I  welcomed  the  Sorrow-beguiler, 
lacchus  !  but  in  came  Boy  Cupid  the  Smiler ; 
Lo  !  Phosbus  the  Glorious  descends  from  his  Throne  ! 
They  advance,  they  float  in,  the  Olympians  all ! 
With  Divinities  fills  my 
Terrestrial  Hall! 

How  shall  I  yield  you 
Due  entertainment, 
Celestial  Quire  1 


172  SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

Me  rather,  bright  guests !  with  your -wings  of  upbuoyaiice 
Bear  aloft  to  your  homes,  to  your  banquets  of  joyance 
That  the  roofs  of  Olympus  may  echo  my  lyre ! 
Hah !  we  mount !  on  their  pinions  they  waft  up  my  Soul ! 

O  give  me  the  Nectar  ! 

O  fill  me  the  Bowl! 
Give  him  the  Nectar ! 
Pour  out  for  the  Poet! 
Hebe!  pour  free? 

Quicken  his  eyes  with  celestial  dew, 
That  Styx  the  detested  no  more  he  may  view, 
And  like  one  of  us  Gods  may  concei-t  him  to  be ! 
Thanks,  Hebe!  I  quaff  it!  lo  Prean,  I  cry! 
The  Wine  of  the  Immortals 
Forbids  me  to  die ! 


ELEGY, 

IMITATED  FROM  ONE   OF   AKENSIDE'S  BLANK  VERSE 
INSCRIPTIONS. 

NEAR  the  lone  pile  with  ivy  overspread, 

Fast  by  the  rivulet's  sleep-persuading  sound, 

Where  "sleeps the  moonlight"  on  yon  verdant  bed — 
O  humbly  press  that  consecrated  ground! 

For  there  does  Edmund  rest,  the  learned  swain ! 

And  there  his  spirit  most  delights  to  rove  : 
Young  Edmund!  famed  for  each  harmonious  strain, 

And  the  sore  wounds  of  ill-requited  love. 

Like  some  tall  tree  that  spreads  its  branches  wide, 
And  loads  the  west-wind  with  its  soft  perfume, 

His  manhood  blossomed  ;  till  the  faithless  pride 
Of  fair  Matilda  sank  him  to  the  tomb. 

But  soon  did  righteous  Heaven  her  guilt  pursue ! 

Where'er  with  wildered  step  she  wandered  pale, 
Still  Edmund's  image  rose  to  blast  her  view, 

Still  Edmund's  voice  accused  her  in  each  gale. 

With  keen  regret,  and  conscious  guilt's  alarms, 
Amid  the  pomp  of  affluence  she  pined  ; 

Nor  all  that  lured  her  faith  from  Edmund's  arms 
Could  lull  the  wakeful  horror  of  her  mind. 

Go,  Traveller!  tell  the  tale  with  sorrow  fraught : 
Some  tearful  maid  perchance,  or  blooming  youth, 

May  hold  it  in  remembrance  ;  and  be  taught 
That  Riches  cannot  pay  for  Love  or  Truth. 


PROSE  IN  RHYME: 

OR, 

EPIGRAMS,  MORALITIES,  AND  THINGS  WITHOUT 

A  NAME. 

*Epo>?  aei  AaArjSpo?  eTaipo?. 

In  many  ways  does  tho  full  heart  reveal 

The  presence  of  the  love  it  would  conceal ; 

But  in  far  more  th'  estranged  heart  lets  know, 

The  absence  of  the  love,  which  yet  it  fain  would  shew. 


DUTY  SURVIVING  SELF-LOVE, 

THE  ONLY  SURE  FRIEND  OF  DECLINING  LIFE. 
A  SOLILOQUY. 

UNCHANGED  within  to  see  all  changed  without, 

Is  a  blauk  lot  and  hard  to  bear,  no  doubt. 

Yet  why  at  others'  Wanings  shouldst  thou  fret  ? 

Then  only  might' st  thou  feel  a  just  regret, 

Hadst  thou  withheld  thy  love  or  hid  thy  light 

In  selfish  forethought  of  neglect  and  slight. 

O  wiselier  then,  from  feeble  yearnings  freed, 

While,  and  on  whom,  thou  may'st — shine  on!  nor  heed 

Whether  the  object  by  reflected  light 

Return  thy  radiance  or  absorb  it  quite  : 

And  tho'  thou  notest  from  thy  safe  recess 

Old  Friends  burn  dim,  like  lamps  in  noisome  air, 

Love  them  for  what  they  are  :  nor  love  them  less, 

Because  to  thee  they  are  not  what  they  were. 


SONG. 

THO'  veiled  in  spires  of  myrtle  wreath, 
Love  is  a  sword  that  cuts  its  sheath, 
And  thro'  the  clefts,  itself  has  made, 
We  spy  the  flashes  of  the  Blade  I 

But  thro'  the  clefts,  itself  had  made, 
We  likewise  see  Love's  flashing  blade 
By  rust  consumed  or  snapt  in  twain: 
And  only  Hilt  and  Stump  remain. 


174  WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE. 


PHANTOM  OR  FACT? 

A  DIALOGUE  IX  VERSE 

AUTHOR. 

A  LOVELY  form  there  sate  beside  my  bed, 
And  such  a  feeding  calm  its  presence  shed, 
A  tender  Love  so  pure  from  earthly  leaven 
That  I  unnet he  the  fancy  might  control, 
'Twas  my  own  spirit  newly  coine  from  heaven 
Wooing  its  gentle  way  into  my  souJ ! 
But  ah  !  the  change— It  had  not  stirr'd,  and  yet 
Alas !  that  change  how  fain  would  I  forget  ? 
That  shrinking  back,  like  one  that  had  mistook! 
That  weary,  wandering,  disavowing  Look! 
'Twas  all  another,  feature,  look,  and  frame, 
And  still,  methought,  I  knew,  it  was  the  same  ! 

FRIEND. 

This  riddling  Tale,  to  what  does  it  belong  ? 

Is't  History  ?  Vision  ?  or  an  idle  Song  ? 

Or  rather  say  at  once,  within  what  space 

Of  Time  this  wild  disastrous  change  took  place? 

AUTHOR. 

Call  it  a  moment's  work  (and  such  it  seems; 
This  Tale's  a  Fragment  from  the  Life  of  Dreams ; 
But  say,  that  years  matur'd  the  silent  strife, 
And  'tis  a  Record  from  the  Dream  of  Life. 


WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE. 

LINKS  COMPOSED   21ST  FEBRUARY,    1827. 

ALL  Nature  seems  at  work.     Stags  leave  their  lair — 

The  boos  are  stirring — birds  are  on  the  wing. 

And  NY  INTER  slumbering  in  the  open  air, 

Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring  ! 

And  I,  the  while,  the  sole  unbnsy  thing. 

Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor  sing. 

Yet  well  I  ken  the  banks  where  Amaranths  blow, 
Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams  of  nectar  flow. 
Bloom,  O  ye  Amaranths!  bloom  for  whom  ye  may, 
For  mo  ye  bloom  not!     Glide,  rich  streams,  away  ! 
With  lips  unbrightened,  wreathlcss  brow,  I  stroll : 
And  Avould  you  learn  the  spells  that  drowse  my  soul  ? 
WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve, 
And  HOPE  without  an  object  cannot  live. 


A  DAY  DREAM.  175 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

VERSE,  a  Breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying, 
Where  HOPE  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine  !  Life  went  a  maying 

With  NATURE,  HOPE,  and  POESY, 
When  I  was  young  f 

When  I  was  young  ?— Ah,  woeful  WHEN  ! 
Ah  for  the  Change  'twixt  Now  and  Then! 
This  breathing  House  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  aery  Cliffs  and  glittering  Sands, 
How  lightly  then  it  Hashed  along: — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  Lakes  and  Rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  Sail  or  Oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  Wind  or  Tide ! 
Nought  cared  this  Body  for  wind  or  weather 
When  YOUTH  and  I  liv'd  iu't  together. 

FLOWERS  are  lovely  ;  LOVE  is  flower-like; 
FRIENDSHIP  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 
O  the  Joys,  that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  FRIENDSHIP,  LOVE,  and  LIBERTY, 

Ere  I  was  old  I 

Ere  I  was  old  ?    Ah  woeful  ERE, 
Which  tells  me,  YOUTH'S  no  longer  here! 
O  YOUTH!  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
7Tis  known,  that  Thou  and  I  were  one, 
Til  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 
It  cannot  be,  that  Thou  art  gone ! 
Thy  Vesper  bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd : 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  Masker  bold! 
What  strange  Disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  f 
J  see  these  Locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  Gait,  this  altered  Size: 
But  SPRINGTIDE  blossoms  on  thy  Lips, 
And  Tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes  ! 
Life  is  but  Thought :  so  think  I  will 
That  YOUTH  and  I  are  House-mates  still. 


-     A  DAY  DREAM. 

MY  eyes  make  pictures,  when  they  are  shut : — 

I  see  a  Fountain,  large  and  fair, 
A  Willow  and  a  ruined  Hut, 

And  thee,  and  me  and  Mary  there. 
O  Mary  !  make  thy  gentle  lap  our  pillow  ! 
Bend  o'er  us,  like  a  bower,  my  beautiful  green  Willow  ! 


176  LINES  SUGGESTED,  &C. 

A  wild-rose  roofs  the  ruined  shed, 

Aud  that  and  summer  well  agree: 
And,  lo!  where  Mary  leans  her  head, 

Two  dear  names  carved  upon  the  tree  ! 
And  Mary's  jears,  they  are  not  tears  of  sorrow  : 
Our  sister  and  our  friend  will  both  be  here  to-inorrow. 

'Twas  Day !  But  now  few,  large,  and  bright 

The  stars  are  round  the  crescent  moon ! 
And  now  it  is  a  dark  warm  Night, 

The  balmiest  of  the  month  of  June : 
A  glow-worm  fallen,  and  on  the  marge  remounting 
Shines  and  its  shadow  shines,  tit  stars  for  our  sweet 
fountain. 

O  ever — ever  be  thou  blest ! 

For  dearly,  ASRA  !  love  I  thee  ! 
This  brooding  warmth  across  my  breast, 

This  depth  of  tranquil  bliss — ah  me! 
Fount,  Tree  and  Shed  are  gone,  I  know  not  whither, 
But  in  one  quiet  room  we  three  are  still  together. 

The  shadows  dance  upon  the  wall, 

By  the  still  dancing  fire-flames  made; 
And  now  they  slumber,  moveless  all! 

Aud  now  they  melt  to  one  deep  shade ! 
But  not  from  me  shall  this  mild  darkness  steal  thee : 
I  dream  thee  with  mine  eyes,  and  at  my  heart  I  feel  thee! 

Thine  eyelash  on  my  cheek  doth  play — 

'Tis  Mary's  hand  upon  niy  brow  ! 
But  let  me  check  this  tender  lay 

Which^ione  may  hear  but  she  and  thou ! 
Like  the  still  hive  at  quiet  midnight  humming, 
Murmur  it  to  yourselves,  ye  two  beloved  women ! 


LINES    SUGGESTED    BY    THE    LAST   WORDS    OF 
BERENGARIUS. 

OB.  ANNO  DOM.   1088. 

No  more  'twixt  conscience  staggering  and  the  Pope 
Soon  shall  I  now  before  my  God  appear, 
By  him  to  be  acquitted,  as  I  hope; 
By  him  to  be  condemned,  as  I  fear. — 

REFLECTION  ON  THE  ABOVE. 

Lynx  amid  moles !  had  1  stood  by  thy  bed, 

Be  of  good  cheer,  meek  soul!  I  would  have  said: 

I  see  a  hope  spring  from  that  humble  fear. 

All  are  not  strong  alike  through  storms  to  steer 


TO  A  LADY.  177 

Right  onward    What  ?  though  dread  of  threatened  death 
And  dungeon  torture  made  thy  hand  and  breath 
Inconstant  to  the  truth  within  thy  heart  ? 
That  truth,  from  which,  through  fear,  thou  twice  didst 

start, 

Fear  haply  told  thee,  was  a  learned  strife, 
Or  not  so  vital  as  to  claim  thy  life  : 
And  myriads  had  reached  Heaven,  who  never  knew 
Where  lay  the  difference  'twixt  the  false  and  true! 

Ye,  who  secure  'mid  trophies  not  your  own, 
Judge  him  who  won  them  when  he  stood  alone, 
And  proudly  talked  of  recreant  BERENGAKE — 
O  first  the  age,  and  then  the  man  compare  ! 
That  age  how  dark !  congenial  minds  how  rare ! 
No  host  of  friends  with  kindred  zeal  did  burn ! 
No  throbbing  hearts  awaited  his  return  ! 
Prostrate  alike  when  prince  and  peasant  fell, 
He  only  disenchanted  from  the  spell, 
Like  the  weak  worm  that  gems  the  starless  night, 
Moved  in  the  scanty  circlet  of  his  light : 
And  was  it  strange  if  he  withdrew  the  ray 
That  did  but  guide  the  night-birds  to  their  prey  I 

The  ascending  Day-star  with  a  bolder  eye 
Hath  lit  each  dew-drop  on  our  trimmer  lawn ! 
Yet  not  for  this,  if  wise,  will  we  decry 
The  spots  and  struggles  of  the  timid  DAWN  ; 
Lest  so  we  tempt  th7  approaching  NOON  to  scorn 
The  mists  and  painted  vapours  of  our  MORN. 


TO  A  LADY, 

OFFENDED    BY    A  SPORTIVE    OBSERVATION    THAT     WOMEN 
HAVE  NO  SOULS. 

NAY,  dearest  Anna!  why  so  grave? 

I  said,  you  have  no  soul,  'tis  true ! 
For  what  you  are,  you  cannot  have  : 

>Tis  I,  that  have  one  since  I  first  had  you  ! 


I  HAVE  heard  of  reasons  manifold 
Why  Love  must  need  be  blind, 

But  this  the  best  of  all  I  hold — 
His  eyes  are  in  his  mind. 

What  outward  form  and  feature  are 

He  guesseth  but  in  part ; 
But  what  within  is  good  and  fair 

He  seeth  with  the  heart. 


178  THE  DEVIL'S  THOUGHTS. 


THE  DEVIL'S  THOUGHTS. 

FROM  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 
A-walking  the  DEVIL  is  gone, 
To  visit  his  little  snug  farm  of  the  earth 
And  see  how  his  stock  went  on. 

Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale 

And  he  went  over  the  plain, 

And  backward  and  forward  he  swished  his  long  tail 

As  a  gentleman  swishes  his  cane. 

And  how  then  was  the  Devil  drest? 

Oh!  he  was  in  his  Sunday's  best: 

His  j-icket  was  red  and  his  breeches  were  blue, 

And  there  was  a  hole  where  the  tail  came  through. 

He  saw  a  LAWYER  killing  a  Viper 

On  a  dung-heap  beside  his  stable, 

And  the  Devil  smiled  for  it  put  him  in  mind 

Of  Cain  and  his  brother,  Abel. 

A  POTHECARY  on  a  white  horse 

Rode  by  on  his  vocations, 
And  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  Friend 

DEATH  in  the  Revelations. 

He  saw  a  cottage  with  a  duoble  coach-house, 

A  cottage  of  gentility  ! 
And  the  Devil  did  grin,  for  his  darling  sin 

Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 

He  went  into  a  rich  bookseller's  shop, 
Quoth  he  !  we  are  both  of  one  college, 

For  I  myself  sate  like  a  cormorant  once 
Fast  by  the  tree  of  knowledge.* 

*  And  all  amid  them  stood  the  TREK  OP  LIFE 
High  eminent,  blooming  ambrosial  fruit 
Of  vegetable  gold  (query  paper-money:)  and  next  to  Life 
Our  Death,  the  ?;REE  OF  KNOWLEDGE,  grew  fast  by. — 

******* 

So  clomb  this  first  grand  thief 

Thence  up  he  flew,  and  on  the  tree  of  life 

Sat  like  a  cormorant. — PAR.  LOST.  IV. 

The  allegory  here  is  so  apt,  that  in  a  catalogue  of  various  readings 
obtained  from  collating  the  MMS.  one  might  expect  to  find  it  noted, 
that  for  "LIFE"  Cod.  quid,  habent,  "TRADE,"  Though  indeed  THE 
TRADE,  i.  e.,  the  biblippolic,  so  called  ttdr  e&xw  may  be  regarded  as 
LIFE  sensu  eminentiori,  a  suggestion  which  I  owe  to  a  young  re- 
tailer in  the  hoisiery  line,  who  on  hearing  a  description  of  the  net 
profits,  dinner  parties,  country  houses,  &c.,  of  the  trade,  exclaimed, 
"Ay!  that's  what  I  call  LIFE  now!"— This  "  Life,  our  Death."  is 
thus  happily  contrasted  with  the  fruits  of  Authorship.— Sic  nos  non 
nobis  mellificamus  Apes. 
Of  this  poem,  which  with  the  Fire,  Famine  and  Slaughter  first 


CONSTANCY  TO  AN  IDEAL  OBJECT.  179 

Down  the  river  there  plied,  with  wind  and  tide, 

A  pig,  with  vast  celerity, 

And  the  Devil  look'd  wise  as  he  saw  how  the  while, 
It  cut  its  own  throat.    There  !  quoth  he  with  a  smile, 

Goes  "  England's  commercial  prosperity." 

As  he  went  through  Cold-Bath  Fields  he  saw 

A  solitary  cell, 
And  the  Devil  was  pleased,  for  it  gave  him  a  hint 

For  improving  his  prisons  in  Hell. 

***** 

General burning  face 

Ho  saw  with  consternation, 
And  back  to  hell  his  way  did  he  take, 
For  the  devil  thought  by  a  slight  mistake 

It  was  general  conflagration. 


THE  ALIENATED  MISTRESS : 
A  MADRIGAL.    (FKOM  AN  UNFINISHED  MELODRAMA.) 

LADY. 

IF  Love  bo  dead  (and  you  aver  it!) 
Tell  mo,  Bard!  whcre^Love  lies  buried. 

POET. 

Love  lies  buried  whereat  was  born 
Ah  faithless  iiyrnh  !  think  it  no  scorn 
If  in  my  fancy  I  presume 
To  name  thy  bosom  poor  LOVE'S  Toinb, 
And  on  that  Tomb  to  read  the  lino, 
Here  lies  a  Love  that  once  was  name, 
But  took  a  dull,  as  I  divine. 
And  died  at  length  of  a  decline. 


CONSTANCY  TO  AN  IDEAL  OBJECT. 

SINCE  all,  that  beat  about  in  Nature's  range, 
Or  veer  or  vanish  ;  why  should'st  thou  remain 
The  only  constant  in  a  world  of  change, 
O  yearning  THOUGHT,  that  liv'st  but  in  the  brain? 

appeared  in  the  Morning  Post,  the  three  first  stanzas,  which  are 
worth  all  the  rest,  and  the  ninth,  were  dictated  by  Mr.  Southey. 
See  Apologetic  Preface,  p.  99.  Between  the  ninth  and  the  conclud- 
ing stanza,  two  or  three  are  omitted,  as  grounded  on  subjects  that 
have  lost  their  interest — and  for  better  reasons. 

If  any  one  should  ask  who  General meant,  the  Author  begs 

leave  to  inform  him  that  he  did  once  see  a  red-facer1  person  in  a 
dream  whom  by  the  dress  he  took  fora  General;  but  ht,  might  have 
been  mistaken,  and  most  certainly  he  did  not  hear  any  names 
mentioned.  In  simple  verity,  the  Author  never  meant  any  one,  or 
indeed  anything  but  to  put  a  concluding  stanza  to  his  doggerel. 


180  THE  SUICIDE'S  ARGUMENT. 

Call  to  the  HOURS,  that  in  the  distance  play, 

The  faery  people  of  the  future  day 

Fond  THOUGHT  !  not  one  of  all  that  shining  swarui 
Will  breathe  on  thee  with  life-enkindling  breath, 
Till  when,  like  strangers  sheltering  from  a  storm, 
Hope  and  Despair  meet  in  the  porch  of  Death! 
Yet  still  thou  haunt'st  me:  and  though  well  I  see, 
She  is  not  thou,  and  only  thou  art  she, 
Still,  still  as  though  some  dear  embodied  Good, 
Some  living  Love  before  my  eyes  there  stood 
With  answering  look  a  readyWr  to  lend, 
I  mourn  to  thee  and  say — "  Ah  !  loveliest  Friend! 
'  That  this  the  meed  of  all  my  toils  might  be, 
'  To  have  a  home,  an  English  home,  and  thee! 
'  Vain  repetition!  Home  and  Thou  art  one. 
'  The  peacefulPst  cot,  the  moon  shall  shine  upon, 
<  Lulled  by  the  Thrush  and  wakened  by  the  Lark 
'  Without  thee  were  but  a  becalmed  Bark, 
'  Whose  Helmsman  on  an  Ocean  waste  and  wide 
'  Sits  mute  and  pale  his  mouldering  helm  beside." 

And  art  thou  nothing  ?    Such  thou  art,  as  when 
The  woodman  winding  westward  up  the  glen 
At  wintry  dawn,  where  o'er  the  sheep-track's  maze 
The  viewless  snow-mist  weaves  a  glist'ning  haze, 
Sees  full  before  him,  gliding  without  tread, 
An  image*  Avith  a  glory  round  its  head  : 
The  enamoured  rustic  worships  its  fair  hues, 
Nor  knows,  he  makes  the  shadow,  ho  pursues! 


THE  SUICIDE'S  ARGUMENT. 

ERE  the  birth  of  my  life,  if  I  wished  it  or  no 
No  question  was  asked  me — it  could  not  be  so ! 
If  the  life  was  the  question,  a  thing  sent  to  try 
And  to  live  on  be  YES  :  what  can  No  be  ?  to  die. 

NATURE'S  ANSWER. 

Is't  returned  as  'twas  sent?  I'st  no  worse  for  the  wear  ? 
Think  first,  what  you  ARE  !  Call  to  mind  what  you  WERE  ! 

*  This  phenomenon,  which  the  Author  has  himself  experienced, 
and  of  which  the  reader  may  find  a  description  in  one  of  the  earlier 
volumes  of  the  Manchester  Philosophical  Transactions,  is  applied 
figuratively  in  the  following  passages  of  the  AIDS  to  REFLECTION: 

•'  Pindar's  fine  remark  respecting  the  different  effects  of  music, 
on  different  characters,  holds  equally  true  of  Genius;  as  many  as 
are  not  delighted  by  it  are  disturbed,  perplexed,  irritated.  The  be- 
holder either  recognizes  it  as  a  projected  form  of  liiti  oini  />'.///{/, 
that  moves  before  him  with  a  Glory  round  its  head,  or  recoils  from 
it  as  a  spectre. "—AIDS  TO  REFLECTION,  p.  230. 


BLOSSOMING  OF  THE  SOLITARY  DATE-TREE.    181 

I  gave  you  innocence,  I  gave  you  Lope, 
Gave  health,  and  genius,  and  an  ampl$  scope. 
Return  you  me  guilt,  lethargy,  despair? 
Make  out  the  Invent'ry ;  inspect  compare  ! 
Then  die — if  die  you  dare ! 


THE  BLOSSOMING  OF  THE  SOLITARY  DATE-TREE. 

A   LAMENT. 

I  SEEM  to  have  an  indistinct  recollection  of  having  read  cither  in 
one  of  the  ponderous  tomes  of  George  of  Venice,  or  in  some  other 
compilation  from  the  uninspired  Hebrew  Writers,  an  Apologue  or 
Rabbinical  Tradition  to  the  following  purpose: — 

While  our  first  parents  were  yet  standing  before  their  offended 
Maker,  and  the  last  words  of  the  sentence  were  yet  sounding  in 
Adam's  ear,  the  guileful  false  serpent,  a  counterfeit  and  a  usurper 
from  the  beginning,  presumptuously  took  on  himself  the  character 
of  advocate  or  moderator,  and  pretending  to  intercede  for  Adam, 
exclaimed:  "  Nay,  Lord,  in  thy  justice,  for  the  Man  was  the  least  in 
fault.  Rather  let  the  Woman  return  at  once  to  the  dust,  ami  let 
Adam  remain  here  all  the  days  of  his  now  mortal  life,  and  enjoy  the 
respite  thou  mayest  grant  him,  in  this  thy  Paradise  which  Thou 
gavest  to  him,  and  hast  planted  with  every  tree  pleasant  to  tho 
sight  of  man  and  of  delicious  fruitage."  And  the  word  of  the  Most 
High  answered  Satan:  "  The  tender  mercies  of  the  wicked  are  cruel. 
Treacherous  Fiend!  guilt  deep  as  thine  could  not  be,  yet  the  love  of 
kind  not  extinguished.  But  if  having  done  what  thou  hast  done, 
thou  had'st  yet  the  heart  of  man  within  thee,  and  the  yearning  of 
the  soul  for  its  answering  image  and  completing  counterpart,  O 
spirit,  desperately  wicked !  the  sentence  thou  counsellest  had  been 
thy  own."  

The  title  of  the  following  poem  Avas  suggested  by  a  fact  mentioned 
by  Linnaeus,  of  a  Date-tree  in  a  nobleman's  garden  which  year  after 
year  had  put  forth  a  full  show  of  blossoms,  but  never  produced 
fruit,  till  a  branch  from  a  Date-tree  had  been  conveyed  from  a  dis- 
tance of  some  hundred  leagues.  The  first  leaf  of  the  MS.  from 
which  the  poem  has  been  transcribed,  and  which  contained  the  two 
or  three  introductory  stanzas,  i;s  wanting:  and  the  author  has  in 
vain  taxed  his  memory  to  repair  the  loss.  But  a  rude  draught  of 
the  poem  contains  the  substance  of  the  stanzas,  and  the  reader  is 
requested  to  receive  it  as  the  substitute.  It  is  not  impossible,  that 
some  congenial  spirit,  whose  years  do  not  exceed  those  of  the  author, 
at  the  time  the  poem  was  written,  may  find  a  pleasure  in  restoring 
the  Lament  to  its  original  integrity  by  a  reduction  of  the  thoughts 
to  the  requisite  Metre. 

S.  T.  C. 

I. 

BENEATH  the  blaze  of  a  tropical  sun  the  mour  tain  peaks 
are  the  Thrones  of  Frost,  through  the  absence  of  objects  to 
reflect  the  rays.  "  What  no  one  with  us  shares,  seems 
scarce  our  own."  The  presence  of  a  ONE, 

The  best  belov'd,  who  loveth  me  the  best, 

is  for  the  heart,  what  the  supporting  air  from  within  is  for 
the  hollow  globe  with  its  suspended  car.  Deprive  it  of 
this,  and  all  without  that  would  have  buoyed  it  aloft  even 
to  the  seat  of  the  gods,  becomes  a  burthen  and  crushes  it 
into  flatness. 


182     BLOSSOMING  OF  A  SOLITARY  DATE-TREE. 

II. 

The  finer  the  sense  for  the  beautiful  and  the  lovely,  and 
the  fairer  and  the  lovelier  the  object  presented  to  the 
sense;  the  more  exquisite  the  individual's  capacity  of  joy, 
and  the  more  ample  his  means,  and  opportunities  of  en- 
joyment, the  more  heavily  will  he  feel  the  ache  of  solitari- 
ness, the  more  unsubstantial  becomes  the  feast  spread 
around  him.  What  matters  it,  whether  in  fact  the  viands 
and  the  ministering  graces  are  shadowy  or  real,  to  him 
who  has  not  hand  to  grasp  nor  arms  to  embrace  them  ? 

in. 

Hope,  Imagination,  honourable  Aims, 
Free  Commune  with  the  choir  that  cannot  die, 
Science  and  Song,  delight  in  little  things, 
The  buoyant  child  surviving  in  the  man, 
Fields,  forests,  ancient  mountains,  ocean,  sky, 
With  all  their  voices  mute — O  dare  I  accuse 
My  earthly  lot  as  guilty  of  my  spleen. 
Or  call  my  niggard  destiny !  No !  no ! 
It  is  her  largeness,  and  her  overflow, 
Which  being  incomplete,  disquieteth  me  so ! 

IV. 

For  never  touch  of  gladness  stirs  my  heart, 

But  tim'rously  beginning  to  rejoice 

Like  a  blind  Arab,  that  from  sleep  doth  start 

In  lonesome  tent,  I  listen  for  thy  voice. 

Beloved !  'tis  not  thine  ;  thou  art  not  there ! 

Then  melts  the  bubble  into  idle  air, 

And  wishing  without  hope  I  restlessly  despair. 

v. 

The  mother  with  anticipated  glee, 

Smiles  o'er  the  child,  that  standing  by  her  chair 

And  flatt'ning  its  round  cheek  upon  her  knee, 

Looks  up,  and  doth  its  rosy  lips  prepare 

To  mock  the  coming  sounds.    At  that  sweet  sight 

She  hears  her  own  voice  with  a  new  delight ; 

And  if  the  babe  perchance  should  lisp  the  notes  aright, 

VI. 

Then  is  she  tenfold  gladder  than  before  ! 

But  should  disease  or  chance  the  darling  take, 

What  then  avails  those  songs,  which  sweet  of  yore 

Were  only  sweet  for  their  sweet  echo's  sake  ? 

Dear  maid !  no  prattler  at  a  mother's  knee 

Was  e'er  so  dearly  prized  as  I  prize  thee : 

Why  was  I  made  for  Love  and  Love  denied  to  me  T 


THE  TWO  FOUNTS.  133 

FANCY  IN  NUBIBUS, 

OR  THE  POET  IN  THE   CLOUDS. 

O  !  IT  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ease, 

Just  after  sunset,  or  by  moonlit  skies, 
To  make  the  shifting  clouds  be  what  you  please, 

Or  let  the  easily  persuaded  eyes 
Own  each  qnaint  li&eness  issuing  from  the  mould 

Of  a  friend's  fancy  ;  or  with  head  bent  low 
And  cbeek  aslant  see  rivers  How  of  gold 
'Twixt  crimson  banks ;  and  then,  a  traveller,  go 
From  mount  to  mount,  through  CLOUDLAND,  gorgeous 
land! 

Or  listening  to  the  tide,  with  closed  sight, 
Be  that  blind  bard,  who  on  the  Chian  strand 

By  those  deep  sounds  possessed  with  inward  light 
Behold  the  ILIAD  and  the  ODYSSKE 

Kise  to  the  swelling  of  the  voiceful  sea. 


THE  TWO  FOUNTS. 

STANZAS  ADDRESSED  TO   A  LADY   ON  HER  RECOVERY   WITH 
UNBLEMISHED  LOOKS,  FROM  A  SEVERE  ATTACK  OF  PAIN. 

'TWAS  my  last  waking  thought,  how  it  could  be, 
That  thou,  sweet  friend,  such  anguish  should'st  endure: 
When  straight  from  Dreamland  came  a  Dwarf,  and  lie 
Could  tell  the  cause,  forsooth,  and  knew  the  cure. 

Methought  he  fronted  me  with  peering  look 
Fix'd  on  my  heart ;  and  read  aloud  in  game 
The  loves  and  griefs  therein,  as  from  a  book ; 
And  uttered  praise  like  one  who  wished  to  blame. 

In  every  heart  (quoth  he)  since  Adam's  sin 

Two  FOUNTS  there  are,  of  SUFFERING  and  of  CHEER  ; 

That  to  let  forth,  and  this  to  keep  within ! 

But  she,  whose  aspect  I  find  imaged  here, 

Of  PLEASURE  only  will  to  all  dispense, 
That  Fount  alone  unlock,  by  no  distress 
Choked  or  turned  inward  ;  but  still  issue  thence 
Unconquered  cheer,  persistent  loveliness. 

As  on  the  driving  cloud  the  shiny  Bow,  / 

That  gracious  thing  made  up  of  tears  and  light, 
Mid  the  wild  rack  and  rain  that  slants  beloxv 
Stands  smiling  forth,  unmoved  and  freshly  bright :       / 


184  THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN. 

As  though  the  spirits  of  all  lovely  flowers, 
Inweaving  each  its  wreath  and  dewy  crown, 
Or  ere  they  sank  to  earth  in  vernal  showers, 
Had  built  a  bridge  to  tempt  the  angels  down. 

Ev'n  so,  Eliza!  on  that  face  of  thine, 

On  that  benignant  face,  whose  look  alone 

(The  soul's  translucence  through  her  chrystal  shrine  f) 

Has  power  to  soothe  ail  anguish  but  thine  own. 

A  Beauty  hovers  still,  and  ne'er  takes  wing, 
But  with  a  silent  charm  compels  the  stern 
And  tort'riug  Genius  of  the  BITTER  SPRING 
To  shrink  aback,  and  cower  upon  his  urn. 

Who  then  needs  wonder,  if  (no  outlet  found 
In  passion,  spleen,  or  strife,)  the  FOUNT  OF  PAIN 
O'erflowing  beats  against  its  lovely  mound, 
And  in  wild  flashes  shoots  from  heart  to  brain  ? 

Sleep,  and  the  Dwarf  with  that  unsteady  gleam 
On  his  raised  lip,  that  aped  a  critic  smile, 
Had  passed :  yet  I,  my  sad  thoughts  to  beguile, 
Lay  weaving  on  the  tissue  of  my  dream : 

Till  audibly  at  length  I  cried,  as  though 
Thou  had'st  indeed  been  present  to  my  eyes, 

0  sweet,  sweet  sufferer !  if  the  case  be  so, 

1  pray  thee,  be  less  good,  less  sweet,  less  wise ! 

In  every  look  a  barbed  arrow  send, 
On  those  soft  lips  let  scorn  and  auger  live! 
J)o  any  thing,  rather  than  thus,  sweet  friend! 
Hoard  for  thyself  the  pain,  tliou  wilt  not  give! 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN. 

PREFATORY  NOTE. 

A  PROSE  composition,  one  not  in  metre  at  least,  seems  prim  a  facie 
to  require  explanation  or  apology.  It  was  written  in  the  year  1798, 
near  Nether  Stowey  in  Somersetshire,  at  which  place  (sanctum  <t 
(niKihile  nomen!  rich  by  so  many  associations  and  recollections)  the 
Author  had  taken  up  his  residence  in  order  to  enjoy  the  society  and 
close  neighbourhood  of  a  dear  and  honoured  friend,  T.  Poole,  Esq. 
The  work  was  to  have  been  written  in  concert  with  another,  whose 
name  is  too  venerable  within  the  precincts  of  genius  to  bo  unneces- 
sarily brought  into  connection  with  such  a  trine,  and  who  was  then 
residing  at  a  small  distance  from  Nether  Stowey.  The  title  and 
subject  were  suggested  by  myself,  who  likewise  drew  out  the 
scheme  and  the  contents  for  each  of  the  three  books  or  cantos, 
of  which  the  work  was  to  consist,  and  which,  the  reader  is  to  be 
informed,  was  to  have  been  finished  in  one  night!  My  partner 
undertook  the  first  canto;  I  the  second:  and  whichever  had  done 
first,  was  to  set  about  the  third.  Almost  thirty  years  have  passed 
by,  yet  at  this  moment  I  cannot  without  something  more  than  a 
smile  moot  the  question  which  of  the  two  things  was  the  more  imprac- 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN.  185 

ticable,  for  a  mind  so  eminently  original  to  compose  another  man's 
thoughts  and  fancies,  or  for  a  taste  so  austerely  pure  and  simple  to 
imitate  the  Death  of  Abel?  Methinks  I  see  his  grand  and  noble 
countenance  as  at  the  moment  when  having  dispatched  my  own 
portion  of  the  task  at  full  finger-speed,  I  hastened  to  him  with  my 
manuscript — that  look  of  humorous  despondency  fixed  on  his  almost 
blank  sheet  of  paper,  and  then  its  silent  mock-piteous  admission  of 
failure  struggling  with  the  sense  of  the  exceeding  ridiculousness  cf 
the  whole  scheme — which  broke  up  in  a  laugh:  and  the  Ancient 
Mariner  was  written  instead. 

Years  afterward,  however,  the  draft  of  the  Plan  and  proposed 
Incidents,  and  the  portion  executed,  obtained  favour  in  the  eyes  of 
more  than  one  person,  whose  judgment  on  a  poetic  work  could  not 
but  have  weighed  with  me,  even  though  no  parental  partiality  had 
been  thrown  into  the  same  scale,  as  a  make-weight:  and  I  deter- 
mined on  commencing  anew,  and  composing  the  whole  in  stanzas, 
and  made  some  progress  in  realizing  this  intention,  when  adverse 
gales  drove  my  bark  off  the  "Fortunate  Isles"  of  the  Muses;  and 
then  other  and  more  momentous  interests  prompted  a  different 
voyage,  to  firmer  anchorage  and  a  securer  port.  I  have  in  vain  tried 
to  recover  the  lines  from  the  Palimpsest  tablet  of  my  memory:  and 
I  can  only  offer  the  introductory  stanza,  which  had  been  committed 
to  writing  for  the  purpose  of  procuring  a  friend's  judgment  on  the 
metre,  as  a  specimen. 

Encinctured  with  a  twine  of  leaves, 

That  leafy  twine  his  only  dress! 

A  lovely  Boy  was  plucking  fruits, 

By  moonlight,  in  a  wilderness. 

The  morn  was  bright,  the  air  was  free, 

And  fruits  and  flowers  together  grew 

On  many  a  shrub  and  many  a  tree: 

And  all  put  on  a  gentle  hue, 

Hanging  in  the  shadowy  air 

Like  a  picture  rich  and  rare. 

It  was  a  climate  where,  they  say, 

The  night  is  more  belov'd  than  day. 

But  who  that  beauteous  Boy  beguil'd, 

That  beauteous  Boy  to  linger  here? 

Alone,  by  night,  a  little  child, 

In  place  so  silent  and  so  wild— 

Has  he  no  friend,  no  loving  Mother  near  ? 

I  have  here  given  the  birth,  parentage,  and  premature  decease  of 
the  "Wanderings  of  Cain,  a  poem," — intreating,  however,  my 
Readers  not  to  think  so  meanly  of  my  judgment  as  to  suppose  that 
I  either  regard  or  offer  it  as  any  excuse  for  the  publication  of  the 
following  fragment,  (and  I  may  add,  of  one  or  two  others  in  its 
neighbourhood)  in  its  primitive  crudity.  But  I  should  find  still 
greater  difficulty  in  forgiving  myself,  were  I  to  record  pro  teed  to 
publico  a  set  of  petty  mishaps  and  annoyances  which  I  myself  wish 
to  forget.  I  must  be  content  therefore  with  assuring  the  friendly 
Reader,  that  the  less  he  attributes  its  appearance  to  the  Author's 
will,  choice,  or  judgment,  the  nearer  to  the  truth  he  will  be. 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


CANTO  II. 

"A  LITTLE  further,  O  my  father,  yet  a  little  further,  and 
we  shall  coine  into  the  open  moonlight."  Their  road  was 
through  a  forest  of  fir-trees ;  at  its  entrance  the  trees  stood 
at  distances  from  each  other,  and  the  path  was  broad,  and 
the  moonlight,  and  the  moonlight  shadows  reposed  upon  it, 
and  appeared  quietly  to  inhabit  that  solitude.  But  soon 


186  THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN. 

the  path  winded  and  became  narrow ;  the  sun  at  high  noon 
sometimes  speckled,  but  never  illumined  it,  and  now  it  was 
dark  as  a  cavern. 

"It  is  dark,  O  my  father!''  said  Enos,  "but  the  path 
under  our  feet  is-  smooth  and  soft,  and  we  shall  soon  come 
out  into  the  open  moonlight/' 

"Lead  on,  my  child!"  said  Cain  :  "guide  me,little  child!" 
And  the  innocent  little  child  clasped  a  ringer  of  the  hand 
which  had  murdered  the  righteous  Abel,  and  he  guided 
his  father.  "The  fir  branches  drip  upon  thee,  my  son." 
11  Yea,  pleasantly,  father,  for  1  ran  fast  and  eagerly  to  bring 
thee  the  pitcher  and  the  cake,  and  my  body  is  not  yet  cool. 
How  happy  the  squirrels  are  that  feed  on  these  fir  trees! 
they  leap  from  bough  to  bough,  and  the  old  squirrels  play 
round  their  young  ones  in  the  nest.  I  clomb  a  tree  yester- 
day at  noon,  O  my  father,  that  I  might  play  with  them, 
but  they  leapt  away  from  the  branches,  even  to  tue  slender 
twigs  did  they  leap,  and  in  a  moment  I  beheld  them 
on  another  tree.  Why,  O  father,  would  they  not  play  with 
me?  I  would  bo  good  to  them  as  thou  art  good  to  me: 
and  I  groaned  to  them  even  as  thou  groanest  when  thou  gi  v- 
est  me  to  eat,  and  when  thou  coverest  me  at  evening,  and 
as  often  as  I  stand  at  thiue  knee  and  thine  eyes  look  at 
me!"  Then  Cain  stopped,  and  stifling  his  groans  he  sank 
to  the  earth,  and  the  child  Enos  stood  in  the  darkness  be- 
side him. 

And  Cain  lifted  up  his  voice  and  cried  bitterly,  and 
said,  "The  mighty  One  that  persecuteth  me  is  on  this  side 
and  on  that ;  he  pursueth  my  soul  like  the  wind,  like  the 
sand-blast  ho  passeth  through  me;  he  is  around  me  even 
as  the  air!  O  that  I  might  be  utterly  no  more !  I  desire 
to  die — yea,  the  things  that  never  had  life,  neither  move 
they  upon  the  earth — behold  !  they  seem  precious  to  mine 
eyes.  O  that  a  man  might  live  without  the  breath  of  his 
nostrils.  So  I  might  abide  in  darkness,  and  blackness,  and 
an  empty  space !  Yea,  I  would  lie  down,  I  would  not  rise, 
neither  would  I  stir  rny  limbs  till  I  became  as  the  rock  in 
t'j  e  den  of  the  lion,  on  which  the  young  lion  resteth  his 
In  a  I  whilst  he  sleepcth.  For  the  torrent  that  muvth  far 
oil  Hath  a  voice ;  and  the  clouds  in  heaven  look  terri- 
bly on  me  ;  the  Mighty  One  who  is  against  me  speaketh  in 
the  wind  of  the  cedar  grove;  and  iu  silence  am  I  dried 
up."  Then  Enos  spake  to  his  father,  "  Arise,  my  father, 
arise,  we  are  but  a  little  way  from  the  place  where  I  found 
the  cake  and  the  pitcher."  And  Cain  said,  "I  low  know- 
est  thou?"  and  the  child  answered — "Behold  the  bare 
rocks  are  a  few  of  thy  strides  distant  from  the  forest ;  and 
wrhile  even  now  thou  wert  lifting  up  thy  voice,  I  heard  the 
echo."  Then  the  child  took  hold  of  his  father,  as  if  he 
would  raise  him  :  and  Cain  being  faint  and  feeble  rose  slow- 
ly on  his  knees  and  pressed  himself  against  the  trunk  of  a 
(ir,  and  stood  upright  and  followed  the  child. 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN.  187 

The  path  was  dark  till  within  three  strides'  length  of  its 
termination,  when  it  turned  suddenly ;  the  thick  black 
trees  formed  a  low  arch,  and  the  moonlight  appeared 
for  a  moment  like  a  dazzling  portal.  Enos  ran  before  and 
stood  in  the  open  air;  and  when  Cain,  his  father,  emerged 
from  the  darkness,  the  child  was  affrighted.  For  the 
mighty  limbs  of  Cain  were  wasted  as  by  fire  ;  his  hair 
was  as  the  matted  curls  on  the  Bison's  forehead,  and  so 
glared  his  fierce  and  sullen  eye  beneath:  and  the  black 
abundant  locks  on  either  side,  a  rank  and  tangled  mass, 
were  stained  and  scorched,  as  though  the  grasp  of  a  burn- 
ing iron  hand  had  striven  to  rend  them  ;  and  his  counte- 
nance told  in  a  strange  and  terrible  language  of  agonies  that 
had  been,  and  were,  and  were  still  to  continue  to  be. 

The  scene  around  was  desolate  :  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach  it  was  desolate :  the  bare  rocks  faced  each  other,  and 
left  a  long  and  wide  interval  of  thin  white  sand.  You 
might  wander  on  and  look  round  and  round,  and  peep  into 
the  crevices  of  the  rocks  and  discover  nothing  that  ac- 
knowledged the  influence  of  the  seasons.  There  was  no 
spring,  no  summer,  no  autumn :  and  the  winter's  snow, 
that  would  have  been  lovely,  fell  not  on  these  hot  rocks 
and  scorching  sands.  Never  morning  lark  had  poised  him- 
self over  this  desert;  but  the  huge  serpent  often  hissed 
there  beneath  the  t%lons  of  the  vulture,  and  the  vulture 
screamed,  his  wings  imprisoned  within  the  coils  of  the 
serpent.  The  pointed  and  shattered  summits  of  the  ridges 
of  the  rocks  made  a  rude  mimicry  of  human  concerns,  and 
seemed  to  prophesy  mutely  of  things  that  then  were  not ; 
steeples,  and  battlements,  and  ships  with  naked  masts.  As 
far  from  the  wood  as  a  boy  might  sling  a  pebble  of  the 
brook,  there  was  one  rock  by  itself  at  a  small  distance 
from  the  main  ridge.  It  had  been  precipitated  there  per- 
haps by  the  groan  which  the  Earth  uttered  when  our 
first  father  fell.  Before  you  approached,  it  appeared  to 
lie  flat  on  the  ground,  but  its  base  slanted  from  its  point, 
and  between  its  point  and  the  sands  a  tall  man  might 
stand  upright.  It  was  here  that  Enos  had  found  the 
pitcher  and  cake,  and  to  this  place  he  led  his  father.  But 
ere  they  had  reached  the  rock  they  beheld  a  human  shape ; 
his  back  was  towards  them,  and  they  were  advancing  uu- 
perceived,  when  they  heard  him  smite  his  breast  and  cry 
aloud,  "  Wo,  is  me !  wo,  is  me !  I  must  never  die  again, 
and  yet  I  am  perishing  with  thirst  and  hunger." 

Pallid,  as  the  reflection  of  the  sheeted  lightning  on  the 
heavy-sailing  Night-cloud,  became  the  face  of  Cain  ;  but 
the  child  Enos  took  hold  of  the  shaggy  skin,  his  Father's 
robe,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  his  Father,  and  listening 
whispered,  "Ere  yet  I  could  speak,  I  am  sure,  O  my 
father,  that  I  heard  that  voice.  Have  not  I  often  said  that 
I  remembered  a  sweet  voice.  O  my  father !  this  is  it :" 
and  Cain  trembled  exceedingly.  The  voice  was  sweet  in- 


188  THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN. 

deed,  but  it  was  tliin  and  querulous  like  that  of  a  feeble 
slave  in  misery,  who  despairs  altogether,  yet  cannot  re- 
frain himself  from  weeping  and  lamentation.  And,  be- 
hold!  Enos  glided  forward,  and  creeping  softly  round  the 
base  of  the  rock,  stood  before  the  stranger,  and  looked  up 
into  his  face.  And  the  Shape  shrieked,  and  turned  round, 
and  Cain  beheld  him,  that  his  limbs  and  his  face  were 
those  of  his  brother  ABEL  whom  he  had  killed  !  And  Cain 
stood  like  one  who  struggles  in  his  sleep  because  of  the 
exceeding  terribleriess  of  a  dream. 

Thus  he  stood  in  silence  and  darkness  of  Soul,  the 
SHAPE  fell  at  his  feet,  and  embraced  his  knees,  and  cried 
out  with  a  bitter  outcry,  "  Thou  eldest  born  of  Adam,  whom 
Eve,  my  mother,  brought  forth,  cease  to  torment  me  !  I 
was  feeding  my  flocks  in  green  pastures  by  the  side  o_f 
quiet  rivers,  and  thou  killedst  me;  and  now  I  am  m 
misery."  Then  Cain  closed  his  eyes,  and  hid  them  with 
his  hands ;  and  again  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  around 
him,  and  said  to  Eiios,  "What  beboldest  thou?  Didst 
thou  hear  a  voice,  my  son  ?"  "  Yes,  my  father,  I  beheld  a 
man  in  unclean  garments,  and  he  uttered  a  sweet  voice, 
full  of  lamentation."  Then  Cain  raised  up  the  Shape 
that  was  like  Abel,  and  said,  "  The  Creator  of  our  father, 
who  had  respect  unto  thee,  and  unto  thy  offering,  where- 
fore  hath  he  forsaken  thee  ?"  Theif  the  Shape  shrieked 
a  second  time,  and  rent  his  garment,  and  his  naked  skiu 
was  like  the  white  sands  beneath  their  feet ;  and  he 
shrieked  yet  a  third  time,  and  threw  himself  on  hia  face 
upon  the  sand  that  was  black  with  the  shadow  of  the 
rock,  and  Cain  and  Enos  sate  beside  him;  the  child  by 
his  right  hand,  and  Cain  by  his  left.  They  were  all  three 
under  the  rock,  and  within  the  shadow.  The  Shape  that 
was  like  Abel  raised  himself  up,  and  spake  to  the  child ; 
"I  know  where  the  cold  waters  are,  but  I  may  not  drink, 
wherefore  didst  thou  then  take  away  my  pitcher  ?"  But 
Cain  said,  "  Didst  tliou  not  find  favour  in  the  sight  of  the 
Lord  thy  God  1"  The  Shape  answered,  "  The  Lord  is  God 
of  the  living  only,  the  dead  have  another  God."  Then  the 
child  Enos  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  prayed;  but  Cain  re- 
joiced secretly  in  his  heart.  "  Wretched  shall  they  be  all 
the  d.iys  of  their  mortal  life,"  exclaimed  the  Shape,  "  who 
sacrifice  worthy  and  acceptable  sacrifices  to  the  God  of 
the  dead ;  but  after  death  their  toil  ceaseth.  Woe  is  me, 
for  I  was  well  beloved  by  the  God  of  the  living,  and  cruel 
wert  thou,  O  my  brother,  who  didst  snatch  me  away  from 
his  power  and  his  dominion."  Having  uttered  these 
words,  he  rose  suddenly,  and  fled  over  the  sands  ;  and  ( 'a in 
said  in  his  heart,  "The  curse  of  the  Lord  is  on  me;  but 
who  is  the  God  of  the  dead?"  and  he  ran  after  the  Shape, 
and  the  Shape  fled  shrieking  over  the  sands,  and  the 
sands  rose  like  white  mists  behind  the  steps  of  Cain,  but 
the  feet  of  him  that  was  like  Abel  disturbed  not  the  sands. 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN.  189 

He  greatly  outrun  Cain,  and  turning  short,  he  wheeled 
round,  and  came  again  to  the  rock  where  they  had  been 
sitting,  and  where  Enos  still  stood;  and  the  child  caught 
hold  of  his  garment  as  he  passed  by,  and  he  fell  upon  the 
ground.  And  Cain  stopped,  aud  beholding  him  not,  said, 
"  he  has  passed  into  the  dark  woods,"  and  he  walked 
slowly  back  to  the  rocks;  and  when  he  reached  it  the 
child  told  him  that  he  had  caught  hold  of  his  garment  as 
he  passed  by,  and  that  the  nian  had  fallen  upon  the 
ground ;  and  Cain  once  more  sat  beside  him,  aud  said, 
"  Abel,  my  brother,  I  would  lament  for  thee,  but  that  the 
spirit  wi thin  me  is  withered,  and  burnt  up  with  extreme 
agony.  Now,  I  pray  thee,  by  thy  flocks,  and  by  thy 
pastures,  and  by  the  quiet  rivers  which  thou  lovedst,  that 
thou  tell  me  all  that  thou  kuowest.  Who  is  the  God 
of  the  dead  ?  where  doth  he  make  his  dwelling  ?  what 
sacrifices  are  acceptable  uuto  him  ?  for  I  have  offered,  but 
have  not  been  received;  I  have  prayed,  and  have  not 
been  heard;  and  how  can  I  be  afflicted  more  than  I  already 
am  ?"  The  Shape  arose  and  answered,  *'  O  that  thou 
hadst  had  pity  on  me  as  I  will  have  pity  on  thee.  Follow 
me,  Son  of  Adam  !  and  bring  thy  child  with  thee  !" 

And  they  three  passed  over  the  white  sando  between  the 
rocks,  silent  as  the  shadows. 


REMORSE. 

A  TRAGEDY.     IN  FIVE  ACTS. 


DRAMATIS  PEJISOXJ3. 

MARQUIS  VALDEZ,  Father  to  the  two  brothers,  and  Donna 

Teresa's  Guardian. 
DON  ALVAR,  the  eldest  son. 
DON  ORDONIO,  the  youngest  son. 
'*  MONVIEDRO,  a  Dominican  and  Inquisitor. 
ZULIMEZ,  the  faithful  attendant  on  Alvar. 
ISIDORE,  a  Moresco  Chieftain,  ostensibly  a  Christian. 
FAMILIARS  OF  THE  INQUISITION. 
NAOMI. 

MOORS,  SERVANTS,  &c. 
DONNA  TKHESA,  an  Orphan  Heiress. 
ALHADRA,  Wife  to  Isidore. 

Time.— The  reign  of  Philip  II..  just  at  the  close  of  the  civil  v.-ars 
against  the  Moors,  and  during  the  heat  of  the  persecution 
which  raged  against  them,  shortly  after  the  edict  which  for- 
bade the  wearing  of  Moresco  apparel  under  pain  of  death. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — The  Sea-shore  on  the  Coast  of  Granada. — Dox 
ALVAR,  wrapt  in  a  boat  cloak,  and  ZULIMEZ  (a  Moresco), 
loth  as  just  landed. 

Zul.  No  sound,  no  face  of  joy  to  welcome  us! 

Alv.  My  faithful  Zulimez,  for  one  brief  moment 
Let  me  forget  my  anguish  and  their  crimes. 
If  aught  on  earth  demand  an  unmix'd  feeling, 
'Tis  surely  this — after  long  years  of  exile, 
To  step  forth  on  firm  land,  and  gazing  round  us, 
To  hail  at  once  our  country,  and  our  birth  place. 
Hail,  Spain!    Granada,  hail!  once  more  I  press 
Thy  sands  with  filial  awe,  land  of  my  fathers! 

Zul.  Then  claim  your  rights  in  it !  O,  revered  Don  Alvar, 
Yet,  yet  give  up  your  all  too  gentle  purpose. 
It  is  too  hazardous!  reveal  yourself, 
And  let  the  guilty  meet  the  doom  of  guilt! 

Alv.  Remember,  Zulimez!  I  am  his  brother, 
Injured  indeed!    O  deeply  injured!  yet 
Ordonio's  brother. 

Zul.  Nobly  minded  Alvar ! 

This  sure  but  gives  his  guilt  a  blacker  dye. 

Alv.  The  more  behoves  it,  I  should  rouse  within  him 
REMORSE  !  that  I  should  save  him  from  himself. 

Zul.  REMORSE  is  as  the  heart  in  which  it  grows: 


REMORSE. 


191 


If  that  be  gentle,  it  drops  balmy  dews 
Of  true  repentance  ;  but  if  proud  and  gloomy, 
It  is  a  poison-tree,  that  pierced  to  the  inmost 
Weeps  only  tears  of  poison ! 

A  Iv.  And  of  a  brother, 

D;iro  I  hold  this,  improved  ?  nor  make  one  effort 
To  save  him  ? — Hear  me,  friend !  I  have  yet  to  tell  thee, 
That  this  same  life,  which  he  conspired  to  take, 
Himself  ouce  rescued  from  the  angry  flood, 
And  at  the  imminent  hazard  of  his  own. 
Add  too  my  oath — 

Zul.  You  have  thrice  told  already 

The  years  of  absence  and  of  secrecy, 
To  which  a  forced  oath  bound  you:  if  in  truth, 
A  suborned  murderer  have  the  power  to  dictate 
A  binding  oath — 

Alv.  My  long  captivity 

Left  me  no  choice :  the  very  Wish  too  languished 
With  the  fond  Hope  that  nursed  it ;  the  sick  babe 
Drooped  at  the  bosom  of  its  famished  mother. 
But  (more  than  all)  Teresa's  perfidy; 
The  assassin's  strong  assurance,  when  no  interest, 
No  motive  could  have  tempted  him  to  falsehood; 
In  the  first  pangs  of  his  awaken'd  conscience, 
When  with  abhorrence  of  his  own  black  purpose 
The  murderous  weapon,  pointed  at  my  breast, 
Fell  from,  his  palsied  hand — 

Zul.  Heavy  presumption ! 

Alv.  It  weighed  not  with  me — Hark  !  I  will  tell  thee  all ; 
As  we  passed  by,  I  bade  thee  mark  the  base 
Of  yonder  cliff— 

ZH  I.  That  rocky  seat  you  mean, 

Shaped  by  the  billows  ?— 

Alv.  There  Teresa  met  me 

The  morning  of  the  day  of  my  departure. 
We  were  alone  :  the  purple  hue  of  dawn, 
Fell  from  the  kindling  cast  aslant  upon  us, 
And  blending  with  the  blushes  on  her  cheek 
Suffused  the  tear-drops  there  with  rosy  light. 
There  seemed  a  glory  round  us,  and  Teresa 
The  angel  of  the  vision !  [  Then  with  agitation. 

Had'st  thou  seen 

How  in  each  motion  her  most  innocent  soul 
Beamed  forth  and  brightened,  thou  thyself  would'st  tell  me, 
Guilt  is  a  thing  impossible  in  her ! 
She  must  be  innocent ! 

Znl.  (with  a  sif/h).          Proceed,  my  Lord ! 

Alv.  A  portrait  which  she  had  procured  by  stealth, 
(For  even  then  it  seems  her  heart  foreboded 
Or  knew  Ordonio's  moody  rivalry) 
A  portrait  of  herself  with  thrilling  hand 
She  tied  around  my  neck,  conjuring  me 


192  REMORSE. 

With  earnest  prayers,  that  I  would  keep  it  sacred 
To  my  own  knowledge:  nor  did  she  desist, 
Till  she  had  won  a  solemn  promise  from  me, 
That  (save  my  own)  no  eye  should  e'er  behold  it 
Till  my  return.    Yet  this  the  assassin  knew — 
Knew  that  which  none  hut  she  could  have  disclosed. 

Zul.  A  damning  proof! 

Alv.  My  own  life  wearied  me  ! 

And  but  for  the  imperative  Voice  within 
With  mine  own  hand  I  had  thrown  off  the  burthen. 
That  Voice,  which  quelled  me,  calmed  me  :  and  I  sought 
The  B^lgic  states :  there  joined  the  better  cause ; 
And  there  too  fought  as  one  that  courted  death  ! 
Wounded,  I  fell  among  the  dead  and  dying, 
In  death-like  trance :  a  long  imprisonment  followed. 
The  fullness  of  my  anguish  by  degrees 
Waned  to  a  meditative  melancholy ; 
And  still  the  more  I  mused,  my  soul  became 
More  doubtful,  more  perplexed;  and  still  Teresa 
Night  after  night,  she  visited  my  sleep, 
Now  as  a  saintly  sufferer,  wan  and  tearful, 
Now  as  a  saint  in  glory  beckoning  to  me  ! 
Yes,  still  as  in  contempt  of  proof  and  reason, 
I  cherish  the  fond  faith  that  she  is  guiltless ! 
Hear  then  my  fixed  resolve :  I'll  linger  here 
In  the  disguise  of  a  Moresco  chieftain. — 
The  Moorish  robes  ? — 

Zul.  All,  all  are  in  the  sea-cave, 

Some  furlong  hence.    I  bade  our  mariners 
Secrete  the  boat  there. 

Alv.  •>  Above  all,  the  picture 

Of  the  assassination — 

Zul.  Be  assured 

That  it  remains  uninjured. 

Alv.  Thus  disguised 

I  will  first  seek  to  meet  Ordonio's — wife  ! 
If  possible,  alone  too.     This  was  her  wonted  walk, 
And  this  the  hour;  her  words,  her  very  looks 
Will  acquit  her  or  convict. 

Zul.  Will  they  not  know  you? 

Alv.  With  your  aid,  friend,  I  shall  unfearingly 
Trust  the  disguise ;  and  as  to  my  complexion, 
My  long  imprisonment,  the  scanty  food, 
This  scar — and  toil  beneath  a  burning  sun, 
Have  done  already  half  the  business  for  us. 
Add  too  my  youth,  when  last  wo  saw  each  other. 
Manhood  has  awoln  my  chest,  and  taught  my  voice 
A  hoarser  note — Besides,  they  think  me  dead : 
And  what  the  mind  believes  impossible, 
The  bodily  sense  is  slow  to  recognize. 

Zul.  'Tis  yours,  sir,  to  command,  mine  to  obey. 
Now  to  the  "cave  beneath  the  vaulted  rock, 


REMORSE.  193 

Where  ha^ug  shaped  you  to  a  Moorish  chieftain, 
I  will  seek  onr  mariners  ;  and  in  the  dusk 
Transport  whatever  we  need  to  the  small  dell 
la  the  Alpux arras— there  where  Zagri  lived. 

Alv.  I  know  it  well:  it  is  the  obscurest  haunt 
Of  all  the  mountains —  [Both  stand  listening. 

Voices  at  a  distance ! 

Let  us  away!  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  TERESA  and  VALDEZ. 

To:  I  hold  Ordonio  dear ;  he  is  your  son 
And  Alvar's  brother. 

Val.  Love  him  for  himself, 

Nor  make  the  living  wretched  for  the  dead. 

Ter.  I  mourn  that  you  should  plead  in  vain,  Lord  Valdez, 
Bufc  heaven  hath  heard  my  vow,  and  I  remain 
Faithful  to  Alvar,  be  he  dead  or  living. 

Val.  Heaven  knows  with  what  delight  I  saw  your  loves, 
And  could  my  heart's  blood  give  him  back  to  thee 
I  would  die  smiling.     But  these  are  idle  thoughts ! 
Thy  dying  father  comes  upon  my  soul 
With  that  same  look,  with  which  he  gave  thee  to  me ; 
I  held  thee  in  my  arms  a  powerless  babe, 
While  thy  poor  mother  with  a  mute  entreaty 
Fixed  her  faint  eyes  on  mine.    Ah  not  for  this, 
That  I  should  let  thee  feed  thy  soul  with  gloom, 
And  with  slow  anguish  wear  away  thy  life, 
The  victim  of  a  useless  constancy. 
I  must  not  see  thee  wretched. 

Ter.  There  are  woes 

111  bartered  for  the  garishness  of  joy ! 
If  it  be  wretched  with  an  untired  eye 
To  watch  those  skiey  tints,  and  this  green  ocean ; 
Or  in  the  sultry  hour  beneath  some  rock, 
My  hair  dishevelled  by  the  pleasant  sea  breeze, 
To  shape  sweet  visions,  and  live  o'er  again 
All  past  hours  of  delight !    If  it  be  wretched 
To  watch  some  bark,  and  fancy  Alvar  there, 
To  go  through  each  minutest  circumstance 
Of  the  blest  meeting,  and  to  frame  adventures 
Most  terrible  and  strange,  and  hear  him  tell  them  ; 
*(As  once  I  knew  a  crazy  Moorish  maid 
Who  drest  her  in  her  buried  lover's  clothes, 
And  o'er  the  smooth  spring  in  the  mountain  cleft 
Hung  with  her  lute,  and  played  the  self-same  tune 
He  used  to  play,  and  listened  to  the  shadow 
Herself  had  made)  —if  this  be  wretchedness, 

*  [Here  Valez  bends  back,  and  smiles  at  her  wildness,  which 
Teresa  noticing,  checks  her  enthusiasm,  and  in  a  soothing  half- 
playful  tone  and  manner,  apologizes  for  her  fancy,  by  the  little  tale 
m  the  parenthesis.] 


191  REMORSE. 

And  if  iudeed  it  be  a  wretched  thing 

To  trick  out  mine  own  death  bed,  and  imagine 

That  I  had  died,  died  just  ere  his  return  ! 

Then  see  him  listening  to  my  constancy, 

Or  hover  round,  as  he  at  midnight  oft 

Sits  on  my  grave  and  gazes  at  the  moon; 

Or  haply  in  some  more  fantastic  mood, 

To  be  in  Paradise,  and  with  choice  flowers 

Build  up  a  bower  where  he  and  I  might  dwell, 

And  there  to  wait  his  coming !     O  my  sire ! 

My  Alvar's  sire !  if  this  be  wretchedness 

That  eats  away  the  life,  what  were  it,  think  you, 

If  in  a  most  assured  reality 

He  should  return,  and  see  a  brother's  infant 

Smile  at  him  from  my  arms  ? 

Oh  what  a  thought !  [Clasping  her  forehead. 

Vol.  A  thought?    even  so!    mere  thought!    an  empty 

thought. 
The  very  week  he  promised  his  return — 

Ter.  (abruptly).    Was  it  not  a  busy  joy?  to  see  him, 
After  those  three  years'  travels !  we  had  no  fears — 
The  frequent  tidings,  the  ne'er-failing  letter, 
Almost  endeared  his  absence !    Yet  the  gladness, 
The  tumult  of  our  joy !    What  then  if  now 

Vol.  O  power  of  youth  to  feed  on  pleasant  thoughts, 
Spite  of  conviction !     I  am  old  and  heartless  ! 
Yes,  I  am  old — I  have  no  pleasant  fancies — 
Hectic  and  unrefreshed  with  rest — 

Ter.  (with  great  tenderness).  My  father! 

Vol.  The  sober  truth  is  all  too  much  for  me ! 
I  see  no  sail  which  brings  not  to  my  mind 
The  home-bound  bark  in  which  my  son  was  captured 
By  the  Algeriue — to  perish  with  his  captors  ! 

Ter.  Oh  no !  he  did  not ! 

Val.  Captured  in  sight  of  land  ! 

From  yon  hill  point,  nay,  from  our  castle  watch-tower 
We  might  have  seen — 

Ter.  His  capture,  not  his  death. 

Val.  Alas!  how  aptly  thou  forget'st  a  tale 
Thou  ne'er  didst  wish  to  learn  !  my  brave  Ordonio 
Saw  both  the  pirate  and  his  prize  go  down, 
In  the  same  storm  that  baffled  his  own  valour. 
And  thus  twice  snatched  a  brother  from  his  hopes : 
Gallant  Ordouio!  (pauses,  then  tenderly)  O  beloved  Teresa, 
Would'st  thou  best  prove  thy  faith  to  generous  Alvar 
And  most  delight  his  spirit,  go,  make  thou 
His  brother  happy,  make  his  aged  father 
Sink  to  the  grave  in  joy. 

Ter.  For  mercy's  sake 

Press  me  no  more !    I  have  no  power  to  love  him. 
His  proud  forbidding  eye,  and  his  dark  brow, 
Chill  me  like  dew  damps  of  the  unwholesome  night: 


REMORSE.  195 

My  love,  a  timorous  and  tender  flower, 
Closes  beneath  his  touch. 

Vol.  You  wrong  him,  maiden ! 

You  wrong  him,  by  my  soul !    Nor  was  it  well 
To  character  by  such  unkindly  phrases 
The  stir  and  workings  of  that  love  for  you 
Which  he  has  toiled  to  smother.     JTwas  not  well, 
Nor  is  it  grateful  in  you  to  forget 
His  wounds  and  perilous  voyages,  and  how 
With  an  heroic  fearlessness  of  danger 
He  roam'd  the  coast  of  Afric  for  your  Alvar. 
It  was  not  well — You  have  moved  me  even  to  tears. 

Ter.  Oh  pardon  me,  Lord  Valdez !  pardon  me ! 
It  was  a  foolish  and  ungrateful  speech, 
A  most  ungrateful  speech  !    But  I  am  hurried 
Beyond  myself,  if  I  but  hear  of  one 
Who  aims  to  rival  Alvar.    Were  we  not 
Born  in  one  day,  like  twins  of  the  same  parent  ? 
Nursed  in  one  cradle  ?    Pardon  me,  my  father ! 
A  six  years'  absence  is  a  heavy  thing, 
Yet  still  the  hope  survives 

Vol.  (looking forward.)  Hush!  'tis  Monviedro. 

Ter.  The  Inquisitor !  on  what  new  sceut  of  blood  f 

Enter  MONVIEDRO  with  ALHADRA. 

Man.  (having  first  made  his  obeisance  to  VALDEZ  and  TERE- 
SA.) Peace  and  the  truth  be  with  you!  Good  my  Lord, 
My  present  need  is  with  your  son.  [Looking  forward. 

We  have  hit  the  time.     Here  comes  he !    Yes,  'tis  lie. 

Enter  from  the  opposite  side  DON  ORDONIO. 
My  Lord  Ordomo,  this  Moresco  woman 
(Alhadra  is  her  name)  asks  audience  of  you. 

Ord.  Hall,  reverend  father !  what  may  be  the  business  ? 

Mon.  My  lord,  on  strong  suspicion  of  relapse 
To  his  false  creed,  so  recently  abjured, 
The  secret  servants  of  the  inquisition 
Have  seized  her  husband,  and  at  my  command 
To  the  supreme  tribunal  would  have  led  him, 
But  that  he  made  appeal  to  you,  my  lord, 
As  surety  for  his  soundness  in  the  faith. 
Though  lessened  by  experience  what  small  trust 
The  asseverations  of  these  Moors  deserve, 
Yet  still  the  deference  to  Ordonio's  name, 
Nor  less  the  wish  to  prove,  with  what  high  honour 
The  Holy  Church  regards  her  faithful  soldiers, 
Thus  far  prevailed  with  me  that 

Ord.  Reverend  father, 

I  am  much  beholden  to  your  high  opinion, 
Which  so  o'erprizes  my  light  services.    [Then  to  ALHADRA. 
I  would  that  I  could  serve  you  ;  but  in  truth 
Your  face  is  new  to  me. 


196  BEMOBSE. 

Mon,  My  mind  foretold  me. 

That  such  would  be  the  event.    In  truth,  Lord  Valdez, 
'Twas  little*  probable,  that  Don  Ordonio, 
That  your  illustrious  son,  who  fought  so  bravely 
Some  four  years  since  to  quell  these  rebel  Moors, 
Should  prove  the  patron  of  this  infidel ! 
The  guarantee  of  a  Moresco's  faith ! 
Now  I  return. 

Alh.  My  Lord,  my  husband's  name 
Is  Isidore.    (ORDONIO  starts.) — You  may  remember  it : 
Three  years  ago,  three  years  this  very  week, 
You  left  him  at  Almeria. 

Mon.  Palpably  false ! 

This  very  week,  three  years  ago,  my  lord, 
(You  needs  must  recollect  it  by  your  wound) 
You  were  at  sea,  and  there  engaged  the  pirates, 
The  murderers  doubtless  of  your  brother  Alvar! 

[TERESA  looks  at  MONVIEDRO  with  disgust  and  hor- 
ror. ORDONIO'S  appearance  to  le  collected  from 
what  follows. 

Mon.  (To  VALDEZ  and  pointing  at  ORDONIO.)  What  is  he 
ill,  my  Lord  ?  how  strange  he  looks ! 

Vol.  (angrily.)  You  pressed  upon  him  too  abruptly,  father, 
The  fate  of  one,  on  whom,  you  know,  he  doted. 

Ord,  (starting  as  in  sudden  agitation.)   O  Heavens!  I? — / 
doted?  [Then  recovering  himself. 

Yes !  I  doted  on  him. 

[ORDONIO  waTks  to  the  end  of  the  stage,  VALDEZ  fol- 
lows, soothing  him. 

Ter.  (her  eye  following  ORDONIO.)    I  do  not,  can  not,  love 

him.     Is  my  heart  hard? 
Is  my  heart  hard  ?  that  even  now  the  thought 
Should  force  itself  upon  me? — Yet  I  feel  it! 

Mon.  The  drops  did  start  and  stand  upon  his  forehead  ! 
I  will  return.     In  very  truth,  I  grieve 
To  have  been  the  occasion.     Ho I  attend  me  woman ! 

Alh.  (to  TERESA.)  O  gentle  lady!  make  the  father  stay, 
Until  my  lord  recover.    I  am  sure, 
That  he  will  say  he  is  my  husband's  friend. 

Ter.  Stay,  father!  stay!  my  lord  will  soon  recover. 

Ord.  (as  they  return  to  VALDEZ.)    Strange,  that  this  Mon- 

viodro 
Should  have  the  power  so  to  distemper  me ! 

Vol.  Nay,  'twas  an  amiable  weakness,  son ! 

Mon.  My  lord,  I  truly  grieve 

Ord.  Tut !  name  it  not. 

A  sudden  seizure,  father  !  think  not  of  it. 
As  to  this  woman's  husband,  I  do  know  him. 
I  know  him  well,  and  that  he  is  a  Christian. 

Mon.  I  hope,  my  lord,  your  merely  human  pity 
Doth  not  prevail 

Ord.  ;Tis  certain  that  he  was  a  catholic; 


REMORSE.  197 

What  changes  may  have  happened  in  three  years, 
I  can  not  say  ;  but  grant  me  this,  good  father : 
Myself  I'll  sift  him :  if  I  nud  him  sound, 
You'll  grant  me  your  authority  and  name 
To  liberate  his  house. 

Mon.  Your  zeal,  my  lord 

And  your  late  merits  in  this  holy  warfare 
Would  authorize  an  ampler  trust — you  have  it. 

Ord.  1  will  attend  you  home  within  an  hour. 

Vol.  Meantime  return  with  us  and  take  refreshment. 

Alh.  Not  till  my  husband's  free!    I  may  not  do  it. 
I  will  stay  here. 

ler.  (aside.)  Who  is  this  Isidore  ? 
Vol.  Daughter ! 

Ter.  With  your  permission,  my  dear  lord, 
I'll  loiter  yet  awhile  t'enjoy  the  sea  breeze. 

lExeunt  VALDEZ,  MONVIEDRO,  and  ORDONIO. 

Alh.  Hah!  there  he  goes!  a  bitter  curse  go  with  him, 
A  scathing  cnrse ! 

(then  as  if  recollecting  herself,  and  ivith  a  timid  look.) 
You  hate  him,  don't  you,  lady? 

Ter.  (perceiving  that  ALHADKA  is  conscious  she  has  spoken 
imprudently.)  Oh  fear  not  me !  my  heart  is  sad  for  you. 

Alh.  These  fell  inquisitors  !  these  sons  of  blood! 
As  I  came  on,  his  face  so  maddened  me, 
That  ever  and  anon  I  clutched  my  dagger 
And  half  unsheathed  it 

Ter.  Be  more  calm,  I  pray  you. 

Alh.  And  as  he  walked  along  the  narrow  path 
Close  by  the  mountain's  edge,  my  soul  grew  eager : 
'Twas  with  hard  toil  I  made  myself  remember 
That  his  Familiars  held  my  babes  and  husband. 
To  have  leapt  upon  him  with  a  tiger's  plunge, 
And  hurl'd  him  down  the  rugged  precit  ice, 
O,  it  had  been  most  sweet ! 

Ter.  Hush !  hush  for  shame ! 

Where  is  your  woman's  heart  I 

Alh.  O  gentle  lady ! 

You  have  no  skill  to  guess  my  many  wrongs, 
Many  and  strange!    Besides,  (ironically)  I  am  a  Christian, 
And  Christians  never  pardon — 'tis  their  faith  ! 

"V?r.  Shame  tall  on  those  who  so'have  shewn  it  to  thee! 

Alh.  I  know  that  man;  'tis  well  he  knows  not  me. 
Five  years  ago  (and  he  was  the  prime  agent) 
Five  years  ago  the  holy  brethren  seized  me. 
Ter.  What  might  your  crime  be  ? 

Alh.  I  was  a  Moresco ! 

They  cast  me,  then  a  young  and  nursing  mother, 
Into  a  dungeon  of  their  prison  house, 
Where  was  no  bed,  no  fire,  no  ray  of  light, 
No  touch,  no  sound  of  comfort !    The  black  air, 
It  was  a  toil  to  breathe  ifc !  when  the  door, 


198  EEMORSE. 

Slow  opening  at  the  appointed  hour,  disclosed 

One  human  countenance,  the  lamp's  red  flame 

Cowered  as  it  entered,  and  at  once  sunk  down. 

Oh  miserable !  by  that  lamp  to  see 

My  infant  quarrelling  with  the  coarse  hard  bread 

Brought  daily :  for  the  little  wretch  was  sickly — 

My  rage  had  dried  away  its  natural  food. 

In  darkness  I  remained — the  dull  bell  counting, 

Which  haply  told  me,  that  the  all-cheering  Sun 

Was  rising  on  our  Garden.     When  I  dozed, 

My  infant's  meanings  mingled  with  my  slumbers 

And  waked  me. — If  you  were  a  mother,  lady, 

I  should  scarce  dare  to  tell  you,  that  its  noises 

And  peevish  cries  so  fretted  on  my  brain 

That  I  have  struck  the  innocent  babe  in  anger. 

Ter.  O  Heaven !  it  is  too  horrible  to  hear. 

Alh.  What  was  it  then  to  suffer?    'Tie  most  right 
That  such  as  you  should  hear  it. — Know  you  not, 
What  Nature  makes  you  mourn,  she  bids  you  heal ! 
Great  Evils  ask  great  Passions  to  redress  them, 
And  Whirlwinds  fitliest  scatter  Pestilence. 

Ter.  You  were  at  length  released.  ? 

Alh.  Yes,  at  length 

I  saw  the  blessed  arch  of  the  whole  heaven ! 
'Tvvas  the  first  time  my  infant  smiled.    No  more — 
For  if  I  dwell  upon  that  moment,  Lady, 
A  trance  comes  on  which  makes  me  o'er  again 
All  J  then  was— my  knees  hang  loose  and  drag, 
And  my  lip  falls  with  such  an  idiot  laugh, 
That  you  would  start  and  shudder! 

Ter.  But  your  husband — 

AHi.  A  month's  imprisonment  would  kill  him.  Lady. 

Ter.  Alas,  poor  man ! 

Alh.  He  hath  a  lion's  courage, 

Fearless  in  act,  but  feeble  in  endurance  ; 
Unfit  for  boisterous  times,  with  gentle  heart 
He  worships  nature  in  the  hill  and  valley, 
Not  knowing  what  he  loves,  but  loves  it  all — 

Enter  ALVAR  disguised  as  a  Moresco,  and  in  Moorish  garments. 

Ter.  Know  you  that  stately  Moor  ? 

Alh.  I  know  him  not: 

But  doubt  not  he  is  some  Moresco  chieftain, 
Who  hides  himself  among  the  Alpuxarras. 

Ter.  The  Alpuxarras  I  does  he  know  his  danger, 
So  near  this  seat  ? 

A  Ih.  He  wears  the  Moorish  robes  too, 

As  in  defiance  of  the  royal  edict. 

[ALHADRA  advances  to  ALVAR,  who  has  walked  to  the  lack 
of  the  stage,  near  the  rocks.    TERESA  drops  her  veil. 

Alh.  Gallant  Moresco!  An  inquisitor, 
Mouviedro,  of  known  hatred  to  our  race 


KEMORSE.  199 

Alv.  (interrupting  lier.)    You  have  mistaken  rue.     I  am  a 
Christian. 

Alh.  He  deems,  that  we  are  plotting  to  ensnare  him  : 
Speak  to  him,  Lady — none  can  hear  you  speak, 
And  not  believe  you  innocent  of  guile. 

Ter.  If  aught  enforce  you  to  concealment,  Sir — 

Alh.  He  trembles  strangely. 

[  ALVAR  sinks  down,and  hides  his  face  in  his  robe. 

Ter.  So  we  have  disturbed  him. 

[Approaches  nearer  to  him. 

I  pray  you  think  us  friends — uncowl  your  face, 
For  you  seem  faint,  and  the  night  breeze  blows  healing. 
I  pray  you  thiuk  us  friends ! 

Alv.  (raising  his  head)  Calm,  very  calm ! 
'Tis  all  too  tranquil  for  reality ! 
And  she  spoke  to  me  with  her  innocent  voice, 
That  voice,  that  innocent  voice !    She  is  no  traitress ! 

Ter.  Let  us  retire,  (haughtily  to  ALHADRA.) 

[They  advance  to  the  front  of  the  Stage. 

Alh.  (with  scorn.)  He  is  indeed  a  Christian. 

Alv.  (aside.)  She  deems  me  dead,  yet  wears  no  mourning 

garment ! 

Why  should  my  brother's — wife — wear  mourning  garments  ? 
(To  TERESA.)  Your  pardon,  noble  dame!  that  I  disturbed 

you: 
I  had  just  started  from  a  frightful  dream. 

Ter.  Dreams  tell  but  of  the  past,  and  yet,  'tis  said, 
They  prophecy — 

A  Iv.  The  Past  lives  o'er  again 

In  its  effects  and  to  the  guilty  spirit 
The  ever  frowning  Present  is  its  image. 

Ter.  Traitress!  (then  aside.) 
What  sudden  spell  o'ermasters  me  ? 
Why  seeks  he  me,  shunning  the  Moorish  woman  ? 

[TERESA  looks  round  uneasily,  but  gradually  becomes 
attentive  as  ALVAR  proceeds  in  the  next  speech. 

Alv.  I  dreamt  I  had  a  friend,  on  whom  I  leant 
With  blindest  trust,  and  a  betrothed  maid, 
Whom  I  was  wont  to  call  not  mine,  but  mo  ; 
For  mine  own  self  seem'd  nothing,  lacking  her 
This  maid  so  idolized  that  trusted  friend 
Dishonoured  in  my  absence,  soul  and  body! 
Fear,  following  guilt,  tempted  to  blacker  guilt, 
And  murderers  were  suborned  against  my  life. 
But  by  my  looks,  and  most  impassioned  words, 
I  roused  the  virtues  that  are  dead  in  no  man, 
Even  in  the  assassins'  hearts!  they  made  their  terms, 
And  thanked  me  for  redeeming  them  from  murder.  [Lady ! 

Alh.  You  are  lost  in  thought :  hear  him  no  more  sweet 

Ter.  From  morn  to  night  I  am  myself  a  dreamer, 
And  slight  things  bring  on  me  the  idle  mood ! 
Well  sir,  what  happened  then  ? 


200  EEMORSE. 

A  Iv  On  a  rude  rock, 

A  rock,  methought,  fast  by  a  grove  of  firs, 
Whose  thready  leaves  to  the  low-breathing  gale 
Made  a  soft  sound  most  like  the  distant  ocean, 
I  stayed,  as  though  the  hour  of  death  were  passed, 
And  I  were  sitting  in  the  world  of  spirits — 
For  all  things  seemed  unreal !  There  I  sate — 
The  dews  fell  clammy,  and  the  night  descended, 
lUaek,  sultry,  close !  and  ere  the  midnight  hour 
A  storm  came  on,  mingling  all  sounds  of  fear, 
That  woods,  and  sky,  and  mountains,  seemed  one  havock. 
The  second  flash  of  'lightning  shewed  a  tree 
1  lard  by  me,  newly  scathed.     I  rose  tumultuous : 
My  soul  worked  high,  I  bared  my  head  to  the  storm, 
And  with  loud  voice  and  clamorous  agony 
Kneeling  I  prayed  to  the  great  Spirit  that  made  me, 
Prayed,  that  REMORSE  might  fasten  on  their  hearts, 
And  cling  with  poisonous  tooth,  inextricable 
As  the  gored  lion's  bite! 

Tcr.  (thundering.)        A  fearful  curse!          [killed  them  ? 

Alh.  (fiercely.)  But  dreamt  you  not  that  you  returned  and 
Dreamt  you  of  no  revenge  t 

Alv.  (his  voice  trembling,  and  in  tones  of  deep  distress.) 

She  would  have  died, 

Died  in  her  guilt— perchance  by  her  own  hands! 
And  bending  o'er  her  self-inflicted  wounds, 
I  might  have  met  the  evil  glance  of  frenzy, 
And  leapt  myself  into  an  unblest  grave! 
I  prayed  for  the  punishment  that  cleanses  hearts : 
For  still  I  loved  her ! 

Alh.  And  you  dreamt  all  this  f 

Ter.  My  soul  is  full  of  visions  all  as  wild ! 

Alh.  There  is  no  room  in  this  heart  for  puling  love  tales. 

Ter.  (Lifts  up  her  vdl,  and  advances  to  ALVAR.) 
Stranger  farewell!  I  guess  not  who  yon  are, 
Nor  why  you  so  addressed  your  tale  to  me. 
Your  mien  is  noble,  and  I  own,  perplexed  me 
With  obscure  memory  of  something  past, 
Which  still  escaped  my  efforts,  or  presented 
Tricks  of  a  fancy  pampered  with  long  wishing. 
If,  as  it  sometimes  happens,  our  rude  startling 
WThilst  your  full  heart  was  shaping  out  its  dream, 
Drove  you  to  this,  your  not  ungentle,  wilduess — 
You  have  my  sympathy,  and  so  farewell ! 
lint  if  some  undiscovered  wrongs  oppress  you, 
And  you  need  strength  to  drag  them  into  light, 
The  generous  Valdez,  and  niy  Lord  Ordonio, 
Have  arm  and  will  to  aid  a  nobler  sufferer, 
Nor  shall  you  want  my  favourable  pleading. 

[Exeunt  TERESA  and  ALHADRA. 

Alv.  (alone.)    'Tis    strange!      It    cannot    be!    my  Lord 
Ordonio ! 


REMORSE.  201 

Her  Lord  Ordonio!    Nay,  I  will  not  do  it! 

I  cursed  him  once — and  one  curse  is  enough ! 

How  sad  she  looked,  and  pale !  but  not  like  guilt — 

And  her  calm  tones — sweet  as  a  song  of  mercy ! 

If  the  bad  spirit  retain'd  his  angel's  voice, 

Hell  scarce  were  Hell.    And  why  not  innocent  ? 

Who  meant  to  murder  me,  might  well  cheat  her? 

But  ere  sbe  married  him,  he  had  stained  her  honour — 

Ah  !  thero  I  am  hampered.    What  if  this  were  a  lie 

Framed  by  the  assassin  ?    Who  should  tell  it  him, 

If  it  were  truth  ?    Ordonio  would  not  tell  him. 

Yet  why  one  lie  ?  all  else.  I  know,  was  truth. 

No  start,  no  jealousy  of  stirring  conscience! 

And  she  referred  to  me — fondly,  methought ! 

Could  she  walk  here  if  she  had  been  a  traitress  f 

Here  where  we  played  together  in  our  childhood? 

Here  where  we  plighted  vows  ?  where  her  cold  cheek 

Received  ray  last  kiss,  when  with  suppressed  feelings 

Sbe  had  fainted  in  my  arms  ?    It  cannot  be ! 

'Tisnot  in  nature  I  I  will  die  believing, 

That  I  shall  meet  her  where  no  evil  is, 

No  treachery,  no  cup  dashed  from  the  lips. 

I'll  haunt  this  scene  no  more !  live  she  in  peace  ! 

Her  husband — aye  her  husband!    May  this  angel 

New  mould  his  canker'd  heart!    Assist  me,  heaven  ! 

That  I  may  pray  for  my  poor  guilty  brother.  [  Exit. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I. — A  wild  and  mountainous  Country.  ORDONIO  and 
ISIDORK  are  discovered,  supposed  at  a  little  distance  from 
ISIDORE'S  liouse. 

Ord.  Here  we  may  stop  :  your  house  distinct  in  view, 
Yet  we  secured  from  listeners. 

Isid.  Now  indeed 

My  house !  and  it  looks  cheerful  as  the  clusters 
Basking  in  sunshine  on  yon  vine-clad  rock, 
That  over-brows  it !  Patron!  Friend!  Preserver! — 
Thrice  have  you  saved  my  life.    Once  in  the  battle 
You  gave  it  me  :  next  rescued  me  from  suicide 
When  for  my  follies  I  was  made  to  wander, 
With  mouths  to  feed,  and  not  a  morsel  for  them . 
Now  but  for  you,  a  dungeon's  slimy  stones 
Had  been  my  bed  and  pillow. 

Ord.  Good  Isidore ! 

Why  this  to  me  ?    It  is  enough,  you  know  it. 

Isid.  A  common  trick  of  Gratitude,  my  lord, 
Seeking  to  ease  her  own  full  heart 

Ord.  Enough ! 

I* 


202  REMORSE. 

A  debt  repaid  ceases  to  be  a  debt. 

You  have  it  in  your  power  to  serve  me  greatly. 

laid.  And  how  my  lord  f    I  pray  you  to  name  the  thing. 
I  would  climb  up  an  ice-glazed  precipice 
To  pluck  a  weed  you  fancied !  [Lady — 

Old.   (with  embarrassment  and  hesitation.}     Why — that — 

Isid.  'Tis  now  three  years,  my  lord,  since  last  I  saw  you : 
Have  you  a  son,  my  lord  ? 

Ord.  O  miserable —  [aside. 

Isidore  ;  you  are  a  man,  and  know  mankind. 
I  told  you  what  I  wished — now  for  the  truth — 
She  loved  the  man  you  kill'd. 

Isid.  (looking  as  suddenly  alarmed.)  You  jest,  my  lord? 

Grd.  And  till  his  death  is  proved  she  will  not  wed  me. 

Isid.  You  sport  with  me,  my  lord  ? 

Ord.  Come,  come  !  this  foolery 

Lives  only  in  thy  looks,  thy  heart  disowns  it ! 

Isid.  I  can  bear  this,  and  any  thing  more  grievous 
From  you,  my  lord — but  how  can  I  serve  you  here  ? 

Ord.  Why  you  can  utter  with  a  solemn  gesture 
Oracular  sentences  of  deep  no-meaning, 
Wear  a  quaint  garment,  make  mysterious  antics— 

Isid.  I  am  dull,  my  lord!    I  do  not  comprehend  you. 

Ord.  In  blunt  terms,  you  can  play  the  sorcerer. 
She  hath  no  faith  iu  Holy  Church,  'tis  true  : 
Her  lover  schooled  her  in  some  newer  nonsense : 
Yet  still  a  tale  of  spirits  works  upon  her. 
She  is  a  lone  enthusiast,  sensitive, 
Shivers,  and  can  not  keep  the  tears  in  her  eye  : 
And  such  do  love  the  marvellous  too  well 
Not  to  believe  it.     \Ve  will  wind  up  her  fancy 
With  a  strange  music,  that  she  knows  not  of — 
With  fumes  of  frankincense,  and  mummery, 
Then  leave,  as  one  sure  token  of  his  death, 
That  portrait,  which  from  off  the  dead  man's  neck 
I  bade  thee  take,  the  trophy  of  thy  conquest. 

Isid.  Will  that  be  a  sure  sign  I 

Ord.  Beyond  suspicion. 

Fondly  caressing  him,  her  favour' d  lover, 
(By  some  base  spell  he  had  bewitched  her  senses) 
She  whispered  such  dark  fears  of  me  forsooth, 
As  made  this  heart  pour  gall  into  my  veins. 
And  as  she  coyly  bound  it  round  his  neck 
She  made  him  promise  silence;  and  now  holds 
The  secret  of  the  existence  of  this  portrait 
Known  only  to  her  lover  and  herself. 
But  I  had  traced  her,  stolen  unuotic'd  on  them, 
And  unsuspected  saw  and  heard  the  whole. 

Isid.  But  now  I  should  have  cursed  the  man  who  told  me 
You  could  ask  aught,  my  lord,  and  I  refuse — 
But  this  I  can  not  do. 
Ord.  Where  lies  your  scruple  ? 


REMORSE.  203 

Isid.  (with  stammering.)  Why — why,  my  lord! 

You  know  you  told  me  that  the  lady  lov'd  you, 
Had  loved  you  with  incautious  tenderness  ; 
That  if  theVoung  man,  her  betrothed  husband, 
Returned,  yourself,  and  she,  and  the  honour  of  both       * 
Must  perish.    Now,  though  with  no  tenderer  scruples 
Than  those  which  being  native  to  the  heart, 
Than  those,  my  lord,  which  merely  being  a  man — 

Ord.  (aloud,  though  to  express  his  contempt  he  speaks  in  the 
third  person.)  This  Fellow  is  a  Man — he  killed  for  hire 
One  whom  he  knew  notr  yet  has  tender  scruples ! 
(Then  turning  to  ISIDORE.)  These  doubts,  these  fears,  thy 

whine,  thy  stammering — 

Pish,  fool !  thou  bluuder'st  through  the  book  of  guilt, 
Spelling  thy  villainy. 

Isid.  My  lord — my  lord, 

I  can  bear  much — yes,  very  much  from  you ! 
But  there's  a  point  where  sufferance  is  meanness ; 
I  am  no  villain — never  kill'd  for  hire — 
My  gratitude 

Ord.  O  aye — your  gratitude  ! 

'Twas  a  well-sounding  word — what  have  you  done  with  it  ? 

Isid.  Who  proffers  his  past  favours  for  my  virtue — 

Ord.  (with  bitter  scorn.)  Virtue 

Isid.  Tries  to  o'erreach  me — is  a  very  sharper, 
And  should  not  speak  of  gratitude,  my  lord. 
I  knew  not  'twas  your  brother  1 

Ord.  (alarmed.)  And  who  told  you  I 

Isid.  He  himself  told  me. 

Ord,  Ha!  you  talk'd  with  him ! 

And  those,  the  two  Morescoes  who  were  with  you  ? 

Isid.  Both  fell  in  a  night  brawl  at  Malaga. 

Ord.  (in  a  low  voice.)  My  brother — 

Isid.  Yes,  my  lord,  I  could  not  tell  you ! 
I  thrust  away  the  thought — it  drove  me  wild. 
But  listen  to  me  now — I  pray  you  listen 

Ord.  Villain  !  no  more.    I'll  hear  no  more  of  it. 

Isid.  My  lord,  ifc  much  imports  your  future  safety 
That  you  should  hear  it. 

Ord.  (turning  off  from  ISIDORE.)  Am  not  /  a  Man? 
>Tis  as  it  should  be !  tut— the  deed  itself 
Was  idle,  and  these  after-pangs  still  idler ! 

Is>d.  We  met  him  in  the  very  place  you  mentioned, 
Hard  by  a  grove  of  firs — 

Ord.  Enough— enough — 

Isid.  He  fought  us  valiantly,  and  wounded  all ; 
In  line,  compelled  a  parley. 

Ord.  (sighing,  as  if  lost  in  thought.)  Alvar !  brother ! 

Isid.  He  offered  me  his  purse — 

Ord.  (with  eager  suspicion.)  Yes  ? 

Isid.  (indignantly.)  Yes — I  spurned  it. — 

He  promised  ua  I  know  not  what — in  vain ! 


204  REMORSE. 

Then  with  a  look  and  voice  that  overawed  me, 

Ho  said,  What  mean  you,  friends  ?    My  life  is  dear : 

I  have  a  brother  and  a  promised  wife, 

Who  make  life  dear  to  me — and  if  I  fall, 

Thftt  brother  will  roam  earth  and  hell  for  vengeance. 

There  was  a  likeness  in  his  face  to  yours : 

I  asked  his  brother's  name :  he  said — Ordonio, 

Sou  of  lord  Valdez !     I  had  well  nigh  fainted. 

At  length  I  said  (if  that  indeed  /  said  it, 

And  that  no  Spirit  made  my  tongue  its  organ,) 

That  woman  is  dishonoured  by  that  brother, 

And  he  the  man  who  sent  us  to  destroy  you. 

He  drove  a  thrust  at  me  in  rage.    I  told  him, 

He  wore  her  portrait  round  his  neck.    He  look'd 

As  he  had  been  made  of  the  rock  that  propt  his  back — 

Aye,  just  as  you.  look  now — only  less  ghastly  ! 

At  length  recovering  from  his  trance,  he  threw 

His  sword  away,  and  bade  us  take  his  lile, 

It  was  not  worth  his  keeping. 

Ord.  And  you  kill'd  him? 

Oh  bloodhounds !  may  eternal  wrath  flame  round  you! 
He  was  his  Maker's  Image  undefac'd !  [A  pause. 

It  seizes  me — by  Hell  I  will  go  on  ! 

What — would'st  thou  stop,  man?  thy  pale   looks  won't 
save  thee !  [A  pause. 

Oh  cold — cold— cold !  shot  through  with  icy  cold  ! 

laid,  (aside.)  Were  he  alive  he  bad  returned  ere  row, 
The  consequence  the  same — dead  through  his  plotting  ! 

Ord.  O  this  unutterable  dying  away — here — 
This  sickness  of  the  heart!  [A  pause. 

What  if  I  went 

And  liv'd  in  a  hollow  tomb,  and  t<-d  on  weeds! 
Aye !  that's  the  road  to  heaven !    O  fool !  fool !  fool ! 

[A  j>au$e. 

What  have  I  done  but  that  which  nature  destined, 
Or  the  blind  elements  stirred  up  within  me  f 
If  good  were  meant,  why  were  we  made  these  Beings  f 
And  if  not  meant — 

Isid.  You  are  disturbed,  my  lord ! 

Ord.  (starts,  looks  at  him  wildly  ;  then,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  his  features  are  forced  into  a  smile.)  A  gust  of  the 
soul!  i'faith,  it  overset  me. 
O  'twas  all  folly — all !  idle  as  laughter ! 
Now,  Isidore !  I  swear  that  thou  shalt  aid  me. 

Isid.  (in  a  low  voice.)  I'll  perish  first  I 

Ord.  What  dost  thou  mutter  oft 

Isid.  Some  of  your  servants  know  me,  I  am  certain. 

Ord.  There's  some  sense  in  that  scruple;  but  we'll  mask 
you.  [watched 

Isid.  They'll  know  my  gait :    but  stay !    last    night  I 
A  stranger  near  the  ruin  in  the  wood, 
Who  as  it  seemed  was  gathering  herbs  and  wild  flowers. 


REMORSE.  205 

I  had  followed  him  at  distance,  seen  him  scale 
Its  western  wall,  and  by  an  easier  entrance 
Stole  after  him  unnoticed.    There  I  marked, 
Tbat  raid  the  chequer  work  of  light  and  shade 
With  curious  choice  he  plucked  110  other  flowers, 
But  those  on  which  the  moonlight  fell :  and  once 
I  heard  him  muttering  o'er  the  plant.    A  Wizard — 
Some  gaunt  slave  prowling  here  for  dark  employment. 

Orel.  Doubtless  you  questioned  him  ? 

laid.  'Twas  my  intention, 

Having  first  traced  him  homeward  to  his  haunt. 
But  lo!  the  stern  Dominican,  whose  spies 
Lurk  every  where,  already  (as  it  seemed) 
Had  given  commission  to  his  apt  familiar 
To  seek  and  sound  the  Moor;  who  now  returning, 
Was  by  this  trusty  agent  stopped  midway. 
I,  dreading  fresh  suspicion  if  found  near  him 
In  that  lone  place,  again  concealed  myself: 
Yet  within  hearing.     So  the  Moor  was  questiou'd, 
And  in  your  name,  as  lord  of  this  domain, 
Proudly  he  answered,  "Say  to  the  lord  Ordonio, 
"  He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again!" 

Ord.   A  strange  reply ! 

laid.  Aye,  all  of  him  is  strange. 

He  called  himself  a  Christian,  yet  he  wears 
The  Moorish  robes,  as  if  he  courted  death. 

Ord.  Where  does  this  wizard  live  ? 

Isid.  (pointing  to  the  distance.)        You  see  that  brooklet  I 
Trace  its  course  backward :  through  a  narrow  opening 
It  leads  you  to  the  place. 

Ord.  How  shall  I  know  it? 

Isid.  You  cannot  err.     It  is  a  small  green  dell 
Built  all  around  with  high  off-sloping  hills, 
And  from  its  shapo  our  peasants  aptly  call  it 
The  Giant's  Cradle.    There's  a  lake  in  the  midst, 
And  round  its  banks  tall  wood  that  branches  over, 
And  makes  a  kind  of  faery  forest  grow 
Down  in  the  water.    At  the  further  end 
A  puny  cataract  falls  on  the  lake ; 
And  there,  a  curious  sight !  you  see  its  shadow 
For  ever  curling,  like  a  wreath  of  smoke, 
Up  through  the  foliage  of  those  faery  trees. 
His  cot  stands  opposite.    You  cannot  miss  it. 

Ord.  (in  retiring  stops  suddenly  at  the  edge  of  the  scene,  and 
then  turning  round  to  ISIDORE.)  Ha! — WTho  lurks  there! 
Have  we  been  overheard  ? 
There  where  the  smooth  high  wall  of  slate-rock  glitters 

Isid.  'NeatU  those  tall  stones,  which  propping  each  the 

other, 

Form  a  mock  portal  with  their  pointed  arch? 
Pardon  my  smiles!    'Tis  a  poor  Idiot  Boy, 
Who  sits  in  the  sun,  and  twirls  a  Bough  about, 


206  REMORSE. 

His  weak  eyes  seeth'd  in  most  unmeaning  tears. 
And  so  he  sits,  swaying  his  cone-like  Head, 
And  staring  at  his  Bough  from  Morn  to  Sun-set 
See-saws  his  Voice  iu  inarticulate  Noises. 

Ord.  'Tis  well !  and  now  for  this  same  Wizard's  Lair. 

laid.  Some  three  strides  up  the  hill,  a  mountain  ash, 
Stretches  its  lower  boughs  and  scarlet  clusters 
O'er  the  old  thatch. 

Ord.  I  shall  not  fail  to  find  it. 

[Exeunt  ORDONIO  and  ISIDORE. 

SCENE  II. — The  inside  of  a  Cottage,  around  which  flowers  and 
plants  of  various  kinds  are  seen.  Discovers  ALVAR, 
ZULIMEZ  and  ALHADRA,  as  on  the  point  of  leaving. 

Alh.   (addressing  ALVAR.)    Farewell  then!   and  though 

many  thoughts  perplex  me, 
Aught  evil  or  ignoble  never  can  I 
Suspect  of  Thee  !    If  what  tiiou  seem'st  thou  art, 
The  oppressed  brethren  of  thy  blood  have  need 
Of  such  a  leader. 

Air.  Nobly  minded  woman ! 

Long  time  against  oppression  have  I  fought, 
And  for  the  native  liberty  of  faith 
Have  bled  and  suffered  bonds.    Of  this  be  certain : 
TIME,  as  he  courses  onward,  still  unrolls 
The  volume  of  concealment.     In  the  FUTURE, 
As  in  the  optician's  glassy  cylinder, 
The  indistinguishable  blots  and  colours 
Of  the  dim  PAST  collect  and  shape  themselves, 
Upstarting  in  their  own  completed  image 
To  scare  or  to  reward. 

I  sought  the  guilty, 

And  what  I  sought  I  found :  but  ere  the  spear 
Flew  from  my  hand,  there  rose  an  angel  form 
Betwixt  me  and  my  aim.     With  baffled  purpose 
To  the  Avenger  I  leave  Vengeance,  and  depart! 

Whate'er  betide,  if  aught  my  arm  may  aid, 

Or  power  protect,  my  word  is  pledged  to  thee : 

For  many  are  thy  wrongs,  and  thy  soul  noble. 

Once  more  farewell.  [Exit  ALHADRA. 

Yes,  to  the  Belgic  states 

We  will  return.    These  robes,  this  stained  complexion, 
Akin  to  falsehood,  weigh  upon  my  spirit. 
Whate'er  befall  us,  the  heroic  Maurice 
Will  grant  us  an  asylum,  in  remembrance 
Of  our  past  services. 

Znl.    And  all  the  wealth,  power,  influence  which  is  yours, 
You  let  a  murderer  hold  ? 

Alv.  O  faithful  Zulimez ! 

That  ray  return  involved  Ordouio's  death, 
I  trust,  would  give  me  an  unmingled  pang, 


REMORSE.  207 

Yet  bearable :— but  when  I  see  iny  father 
Strewing  his  scant  grey  hairs,  e'en  on  the  ground, 
Which  soon  must  be  his  grave,  and  my  TERESA — 
Her  husband  proved  a  murderer,  and  her  infants 
His  infants — poor  TERESA! — all  would  perish, 
All  perish— all!  and  I  (nay,  bear  with  me) 
Could  not  survive  the  complicated  ruin ! 

Zul.  (much  affected.)  Nay  now!  I  have  distress'd  you — 

you  well  know, 

I  ne'er  will  quit  your  fortunes.    True,  'tis  tiresome  ! 
You  are  a  painter,*  one  of  many  fancies ! 
You  can  call  up  past  deeds,  and  make  them  live 
On  the  blank  canvas;  and  each  little  herb, 
That  grows  on  mountain  bleak,  or  tangled  forest, 

You  have  learnt  to  name 

Hark !  heard  you  not  some  footsteps  ? 

Alv.  What  if  it  were  my  brother  coming  onwards  If 
I  sent  a  most  mysterious  message  to  him. 

Enter  ORDONIO. 

Alv.  (starting.)  It  is  he! 

Orel,  (to  himself  as  he  enters.)  If  I  distinguished  right  her 

gait  and  stature, 

It  was  the  Moorish  woman,  Isidore's  wife, 
That  passed  me  as  I  entered.    A  lit  taper, 
In  the  night  air,  doth  not  more  naturally 
Attract  the  night  flies  round  it,  than  a  conjuror 
Draws  round  him  the  whole  female  neighbourhood. 
(Addressing  ALVAR)  You  know  my  name,  I  guess,  if  not 

mv  person. 

I  am  Oraonio,  son  of  the  Valdez ! 
Alv.  (with  deep  emotion.)  The  Son  of  Valdez  ! 

[ORDONIO  walks  leisurely  round  the  room,  and  looks 

attentively  at  the  plants. 
Zul.  (to  ALVAR.)  Why,  what  ails  you  now  ! 
How  your  hand  trembles !    Alvar,  speak !  what  wish  you  ? 
Alv.  To  fall  upon  his  neck  and  weep  forgiveness ! 
Ord.   (returning  and  aloud.)   Plucked  iu  the  moonlight 

from  a  ruined  abbey — 
Those  only,  which  the  pale  rays  visited ! 
O  the  uuintelligible  power  of  weeds, 
When  a  few  odd  prayers  have  been  muttered  o'er  them : 
Then  they  work  miracles  !  I  warrant  you, 
There's  not  a  leaf,  but  underneath  it  lurks 
Some  serviceable  imp. 

There's  one  of  you 
Hath  sent  me  a  strange  message. 

Alv.  I  am  he. 

Ord.  With  you,  then,  I  am  to  speak: 

[Haughtily  waving  1m  hand  to  ZULIMEZ. 

.*  Vide  Appendix,  p.  237. 


208  REMORSE. 

And  mark  you,  alone.  [Exit  ZULIMEZ. 

"  He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again !" — 
Such  was  your  message,  Sir !    You  are  no  dullard, 
But  one  that  strips  the  outward  riiid  of  things! 

Alv.  ;Tis  fabled  there  are  fruits  with  tempting  rinds, 
That  are  all  dust  and  rottenness  within. 
Would'st  thou  I  should  strip  such  f 

Ord.  Thou  quibbling  fool, 

What  dost  thou  mean  ?    Think'st  thou  I  journeyed  hither, 
To  sport  with  thee  f 

Alv.  O  no,  my  lord !  to  sport 

Best  suits  the  gaiety  of  innocence. 

Ord.  (aside.)  O  what  a  thing  is  man  !  the  wisest  heart 
A  Fool !  a  Fool  that  laughs  at  its  own  folly, 
Yet  still  a  fool !  [Looks  round  the  cottage. 

You  are  poor ! 

Alv.  What  follows  thence  ? 

Ord.  That  you  would  fain  be  richer. 

The  inquisition,  too — You  comprehend  me  f 
You  are  poor,  iu  peril.     I  have  wealth  and  power, 
Can  quench  the  flames,  and  cure  your  poverty : 
And  for  the  boon  I  ask  of  you  but  this, 
That  you  should  serve  me — once — for  a  few  hours.[Heaven 

Alv.  (solemnly.)    Thou  art  the  sou  of  Valdez !  would  to 
That  I  could  truly  and  for  ever  serve  thee. 

Ord.  The  slave  begins  to  soften.  [aside. 

You  are  my  friend — 

"  He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again," 
Nay,  no  defence  to  me  !    The  holy  brethren 
Believe  these  calumnies — I  know  the  better. 
(Then  with  yrcat  bitterness.)    Thou  art  a  man,  and  MS  a  man 
I'll  trust  thee  !  [business. 

Alv.    (aside.)    Alas!    this    hollow    mirth — Declare    your 

Ord.  I  love  a  lady,  and  she  would  love  me 
But  for  an  idle  and  fantastic  scruple. 
Have  you  no  servants  here,  no  listeners  ? 

[ORDONIO  steps  to  the  door. 

Alv.  What,  faithless  too  ?    False  to  his  angel  wife  f 
To  such  a  wife  f    Well  might'st  thou  look  so  wan, 

Ill-starred  Teresa! Wretch!  my  softer  soul 

Js  pass'd  away,  and  I  will  probe  his  conscience ! 

Ord.  In  truth  this  lady  lov'd  another  man, 
But  he  has  perish'd. 

Alv.  What !  you  kill'd  him  ?  hey  ? 

Ord.  I'll  dash  thee  to  the  earth,  if  thou  but  thiiik'st  it! 
Insolent  slave!  how  dar'dst  thou — 

[Turns  abruptly  from  ALVAR,  and  then  to  himself. 

Why!  what's  this? 

'Twas  idiotcy  !     I'll  tie  myself  to  an  aspen, 
And  wear  a  fool's  cap — 

Alv.  (watch in /i  his  agitation.)    Fare  thee  well — 
I  pily  thee,  Ordouio,  even  to  anguish.      [ALVAR  is  retiring. 


REMORSE.  209 

Ord.  (having  recovered  himself.)     Ho!    [Calling  to  ALVAR. 

Alv.  Be  brief,  what  wish  you  f 

Ord.  You  are  deep  at  bartering — You  charge  yourself 
At  a  round  sum.     Come,  come,  I  spake  unwisely. 

Alv.  1  listen  to  you. 

Ord.               In  a  sudden  tempest, 
Did  Alvar  perish — he,  I  mean — the  lover — 
The  fellow 

Alv.  Nay,  speak  out!  'twill  ease  your  heart 

To  call  him  villain  ! — Why  stand'st  thou  aghast  ? 
Men  think  it  natural  to  hate  their  rivals. 

Ord.  (hesitating.)  Now,  till  she  knows  him  dead,  she  will 
not  wed  me. 

Alv.  (with  eager  vehemence.)   Are  you  not  wedded  then? 

Merciful  Heaven ! 
Not  wedded  to  TERESA  ? 

Ord.  Why  what  ails  thee  f 

What,  art  thou  mad?  why  look'st  thou  upward  so? 
Dost  pray  to  Lucifer,  Prince  of  the  Air  ? 

Alv.  (recollecting  himself.)  Proceed,  I  shall  be  silent. 

[ALVAR  sits,  and  leaning  on  the  table,  hides  his  face. 

Ord.  To  Teresa  f 

Politic  wizard!  ere  you  sent  that  message, 
You  had  coiiu'd  your  lesson,  made  yourself  proficient 
In  all  my  fortunes.     Hah  !  you  prophesied 
A  golden  crop  !     Well,  you  have  not  mistaken — 
Be  faithful  to  me  and  I'll  pay  thee  nobly. 

Alv.  (lifting  up  his  head.)  Well!  and  this  lady! 

Ord.  If  we  could  make  her  certain  of  his  death, 
She  needs  must  wed  me.    Ere  her  lover  left  her, 
She  tied  a  little  portrait  round  his  neck, 
Entreating  him  to  wear  it. 

Alv.  (sighing.)  Yes!  he  did  so  ! 

Ord.  Why  no:  he  was  afraid  of  accidents, 
Of  robberies,  and  shipwrecks,  and  the  like. 
In  secrecy  he  gave  it  me  to  keep, 
Till  his  return. 

Alv.  What!  he  was  your  friend  then? 

Ord.  (wounded  and  embarrassed.)  I  was  his  friend. — 

Now  that  he  gave  it  me, 

This  lady  knows  not.    You  are  a  mighty  wizard — 
Can  call  the  dead  man  up  -  he  will  not  come — 
He  is  in  heaven  then — there  you  have  no  influence. 
Still  there  are  tokens — and  your  imps  may  bring  you 
Something  he  wore  about  him  when  he  died. 
And  when  the  smoke  of  the  incense  on  the  altar 
Is  pass'd,  your  spirits  will  have  left  this  picture. 
What  say  you  noAv  ? 

Alv.  (after  a  pause.)  Ordonio,  I  will  do  it. 

Ord.  We'll  hazard  no  delay.     Be  it  to-night, 
In  the  early  evening.    Ask  for  the  Lord  Valdez. 
I  will  prepare  him.     Music  too,  and  incense. 


210  REMORSE. 

(For  I  have  arranged  it— Music,  Altar,  Incense) 
All  shall  be  ready.     Here  is  this  same  picture, 
And  here,  what  you  will  value  more,  a  purse. 
Come  early  for  your  magic  ceremonies. 

Ah.  I  will  not  fail  to  meet  you. 

Ord.  Till  next  we  meet,  farewell !  [Exit  ORDOXIO. 

Alv.    (alone,  indignantly  flings  the  purse  away  and  gazes 

rssionately  at  the  portrait.)        And  I  did  curse  thee  ? 
ightf  on  my  knees?  and  I  believed 
Thee  perj  n  r'  d ,  th  ee  a  tra  i  tress  ?     Th-ee  dishonor5  d ! 

0  blind  and  credulous  fool !     O  guilt  of  folly ! 
Should  not  thy  inarticulate  Fondnesses, 

Thy  Infant  Loves — should  not  thy  Maiden  Vows 

Have  come  upon  my  heart  ?    And  this  sweet  linage 

Tied  round  my  neck  with  many  a  chaste  endearment, 

And  thrilling  hands,  that  made  me  weep  and  tremble — 

Ah,  coward  dupe!  to  yield  it  to  the  miscreant, 

Who  spake  pollution  of  thee  I  barter  for  Life 

This  farewell  Pledge,  which  with  impassioned  Vow 

1  had  sworn  that  I  would  grasp — cv'n  iu  my  Death-pang! 

I  am  unworthy  of  thy  love,  Teresa, 

Of  that  unearthly  smile  upon  those  lips, 

Which  ever  smiled  on  me  !    Yet  do  not  scorn  me — 

I  lisp'd  thy  name,  ere  I  had  learnt  my  mother's. 

Dear  Portrait !  rescued  from  a  traitor's  keeping, 
I  will  not  now  profane  thee,  holy  Image, 
To  a  dark  trick.    That  worst  bad  man  shall  find 
A  picture,  which  will  wake  the  hell  within  him, 
And  rouse  a  fiery  whirlwind  in  his  conscience. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I. — A  Hall  of  Armory,  with  an  Altar  at  the  back  of  the 
/Stage.    Soft   Music  from,  an  Instrument  of  Glass  or 
Steel. 
VALDEZ,  ORDONIO,  and  ALVAR  I'M  a  Sorcerer's  robe,  are  dis- 

'  covered. 

Ord.  This  was  too  melancholy,  Father. 
Val.  Nay, 

My  Alvar  lov'd  sad  music  from  a  child. 
Once  he  was  lost ;  and  after  weary  search 
Wo  found  him  in  an  open  place  in  the  wood, 
To  which  spot  he  had  followed  a  blind  boy, 
Who  breath'd  into  a  pipe  of  sycamore 
Some  strangely  moving  notes :  and  these,  he  said, 
Were  taught  him  in  a  dream.-   Him  he  first  saw 
Stretch'd  on  the  broad  top  of  a  sunny  heath-bank : 
And  lower  down  poor  ALVAR,  fast  asleep, 
His  head  upon  the  blind  boy's  dog.    It  pleas'd  me 


K 


REMORSE.  211 

To  mark  how  he  had  fastened  round  the  pipe 
A  silver  toy  his  grandam  had  late  given  him. 
Methinks  I  see  him  now  as  he  then  look'd — 
Even  so  !— He  had  outgrown  his  infant  dress, 
Yet  still  ho  wore  it. 

Alv.  My  tears  must  not  flow  ! 

I  must  not  clasp  his  knees,  and  cry,  My  father ! 

Enter  TERESA,  and  Attendants. 

Ter.  Lord  Valdez,  you  have  asked  my  presence  here, 
And  I  submit ;  but  (Heaven  bear  witness  for  me) 
My  heart  approves  it  not !  'tis  mockery. 

Ord.  Believe  you  then  no  preternatural  influence : 
Believe  you  not  that  spirits  throng  around  us? 

Ter.  Say  rather  that  I  have  imagin'd  it 
A  possible  thing :  and  it  has  sooth  d  my  soul 
As  other  fancies  have ;  but  ne'er  seduced  me 
To  traffic  with  the  black  and  frenzied  hope 
That  the  dead  hear  the  voice  of  witch  or  wizard. 
To  ALVAR.]  Stranger,  I  mourn  and  blush  to  see  you  here 

n  such  employment !    With  far  other  thoughts 
I  left  you. 

Ord.  (aside.}  Ha!  he  has  been  tampering  with  her  ? 

Alv.  Oh  high-soul'd  Maiden!  and  more  dear  to  me 
Than  suits  the  Stranger's  name! — 

I  swear  to  thee 

I  will  uncover  all  concealed  guilt. 
Doubt,  but  decide  not !     Stand  ye  from  the  altar. 

[Here  a  strain  of  music  is  heard  from  behind  the  scene. 

Alv.  With  no  irreverent  voice  or  uncouth  charm 
I  call  up  the  Departed ! 

Soul  of  Alvar! 

Hear  our  soft  suit,  and  heed  my  milder  spell : 
So  may  the  gates  of  Paradise,  unbarr'd, 
Ceass  thy  swift  toils!    Since  haply  thou  art  one 
Of  that  innumerable  company 
Who  in  broad  circle,  lovelier  than  the  rainbow, 
Girdle  this  round  earth  in  a  dizzy  motion, 
With  noise  too  vast  and  constant  to  be  heard: 
Fitliest  unheard!     For  oh,  ye  numberless, 
And  rapid  Travellers!  what  ear  unstunn'd, 
What  sense  unmadden'd,  might  bear  up  against 
The  rushing  of  your  congregated  wings  ?  [Music. 

Even  now  your  living  wheel  turns  o'er  my  head ! 

[ Music  expressive  of  the  movements  and  images  that  follow. 
Ye,  as  ye  pass,  toss  high  the  desart  Sands, 
That  roar  and  whiten,  like  a  burst  of  waters, 
A  sweet  appearance,  but  a  dread  illusion 
To  the  parch'd  caravan  that  roams  by  night ! 
And  ye  build  up  on  the  becalmed  waves 
That  whirling  pillar,  which  from  Earth  to  Heaven 
Stands  vast,  and  moves  in  blackness !    Ye  too  split 


212  REMORSE. 

The  ice  mount!  and  with  fragments  many  and  huge 
Tempest  the  new-thaw'd  sea,  Avhose  sudden  gulphs 
Sack  in,  perchance,  some  Lapland  wizard's  skiff! 
Then  round  and  round  the  whirlpool's  marge  ye  dance, 
Till  from  the  blue  swoln  Corse  the  Soul  toils  out, 
And  joins  your  mighty  Army. 

[Here  behind  the  scenes  a  voice  sings  the  three  words. 
"Hear,  Sweet  Spirit." 

Soul  of  Alvar ! 

Hear  the  mild  spell,  and  tempt  no  blacker  Charm ! 
By  sighs  unquiet,  and  the  sickly  pang 
Of  a  half  dead,  yet  still  undying  Hope, 
Pass  visible  before  our  mortal  sense ! 
So  shall  the  Church's  cleansing  rites  be  thine, 
Her  knells  and  masses  that  redeem  the  Dead ! 

SONG. 
Behind  the  Scenes,  accompanied  by  the  same  Instrument  as  before. 

Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell, 
Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel  ! 
So  shall  the  midnight  breezes  swell 
»  With  thy  deep  long-lingering  knell. 

And  at  evening  evermore, 

In  a  Chapel  on  the  shore 

Shall  the  Chaunters  sad  and  saintly, 

Yellow  tapers  burning  faintly, 

Doleful  Masses  chaunt  for  thee, 

Miserere  Domine  1  * 

Hark  !  the  cadence  dies  away 

On  the  yellow,  moonlight  sea  ; 
The  boatmen  rest  their  oars  and  say, 

Miserere  Domine  !  [,4  long  pause. 

Ord.  The  innocent  obey  nor  charm  nor  spell ! 
My  brother  is  in  Heaven.     Thou  sainted  spirit, 
Burst  on  our  sight,  a  passing  visitant ! 
Once  more  to  hear  thy  voice,  once  more  to  see  thee, 
O  'twere  a  joy  to  me ! 

Ah.  A  joy  to  thee! 

What  if  thon  heard'st  him  now  ?    What  if  his  spirit 
Re-enter' d  its  cold  corse,  and  came  upon  thee 
With  many  a  stab  from  many  a  murderer's  poniard  f 
What  if  (his  steadfast  Eye  still  beaming  Pity 
And  Brother's  love)  he  turn'd  his  head  aside, 
Lest  he  should  look  at  thee,  and  with  one  look 
Hurl  thee  beyond  all  power  of  Penitence? 

Val.  These  are  unholy  fancies  ! 

Ord.  (struggling  with  his  feelings.)  Yes,  my  father, 
He  is  in  Heaven ! 

Alv.  (still  to  ORDONIO.)  But  what  if  he  had  a  brother, 
Who  had  lived  even  so,  that  at  his  dying  hour, 
The  name  of  heaven  would  have  convulsed  his  face, 
More  than  the  death-pang  ? 

JW.  Idly  prating  man  ! 


REMORSE.  213 

Thou  hast  guess'd  ill :  Don  Alvar's  only  brother 
Stands  here  before  thee — a  father's  blessing  on  him  ! 
He  is  most  virtuous. 

Alv.  (still  to  ORDONIO.)  What,  if  his  very  virtues 
Had  pampered  his  swoln  heart  and  made  him  proud  ? 
And  what  if  Pride  had  duped  him  into  guilt  ? 
Yet  still  he  stalked  a  self-created  God, 
Not  very  bold,  but  exquisitely  cunning; 
And  one  that  at  his  Mother's  looking-glass 
Would  force  his  features  to  a  frowning  sternness  ? 
Young  Lord  !  I  tell  thee,  that  there  are  such  Beings — 
Yea,  and  it  gives  fierce  merriment  to  the  dainn'd, 
To  see  these  most  proud  men,  that  loath  mankind, 
At  every  stir  and  buz  of  coward  conscience, 
Trick,  cant,  and  lie,  most  whining  hypocrites ! 
Away,  away !  Now  let  me  hear  more  music.     [Music  again. 

Ter.    'Tis  strange,  I  tremble  at  my  own  conjectures ! 
But  whatsoe'er  it  mean,  I  dare  no  longer 
Be  present  at  these  lawless  mysteries, 
This  dark  Provoking  of  the  Hidden  Powers ! 
Already  I  aifront — if  not  high  Heaven — 
Yet  Alvar's  Memory !  Hark !  I  make  appeal 
Against  the  unholy  rite,  and  hasten  hence 
To  bend  before  a  lawful  Shrine,  and  seek 
That  voice  which  whispers,  when  the  still  Heart  listens, 
Comfort  and  faithful  Hope !    Let  us  retire. 

Alv.  (to  TERESA,  anxiously.)  O  full  of  faith  and  guileless 

love,  thy  Spirit 

Still  prompts  thee  wisely.    Let  the  pangs  of  guilt 
Surprise  the  guilty :  thou  art  innocent ! 

[Exeunt  TERESA  and  Attendant.  Music  as  before. 
The  spell  is  mutter' d — Come,  thou  wandering  Shape, 
WTho  own'st  no  Master  in  a  human  eye, 
Whate'er  be  this  man's  doom,  fair  be  it,  or  foul, 
If  he  be  dead,  O  come !  and  bring  with  thee 
That  which  he  grasp' d  in  death !    But  if  he  live, 
Some  token  of  his  obscure  perilous  life. 

[The  whole  Music  clashes  into  a  Chorus. 

CHORUS. 

Wandering  Demons  hear  the  spell  1 
Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel— 

[The  incense  on  the  altar  takes  fire  suddenly,  and  an  il- 
luminated picture  of  ALVAR'S  assassination  is  dis- 
covered, and  having  remained  a  few  seconds  is  then 
hidden  by  ascending  flames. 
Ord.  (starting  in  great  agitation)  Duped !  duped !  duped ! 

— the  traitor  Isidore ! 

[ At  this  instant  the  doors  are  forced  open,  MONVIEDRO 
and  the  Familiars  of  the  Inquisition,  Servants, 
&c.,  enter  and  fill  the  stage. 


214  REMOKSE. 

Mon.  First  seize  the  sorcerer !  suffer  him  not  to  speak  I 
The  holy  judges  of  the  Inquisition 

Shall  hear  his  first  words. — Look  you  pale,  lord  Valdez  ? 
Plain  evidence  have  we  here  of  most  foul  sorcery. 
There  is  a  dungeon  underneath  this  castle, 
And  as  you  hope  for  mild  interpretation, 
Surrender  instantly  the  keys  and  charge  of  it. 

Ord.  (recovering  himself  as  from  stupor,  to  Servants.)  Why 
haste  you  not  ?    Off  with  him  to  the  dungeon  ! 

[All  rush  out  in  tumult. 

SCENE  II. — Interior  of  a  Chapel,  with  painted  Windows. 
Enter  TERESA. 

Ter.  When  first  I  entered  this  pure  spot,  forebodings 
Press'd  heavy  on  my  heart:  but  as  I  knelt, 
Such  calm  unwonted,  bliss  possess'd  my  spirit, 
A  trance  so  cloudless,  that  those  sounds,  hard  by, 
Of  trampling  uproar  fell  upon  mine  ear 
As  alien  and  unnoticed  as  the  rain-storm 
Beats  on  the  roof  of  some  fair  banquet  room, 
"While  sweetest  melodies  are  warbling 

Enter  VALDEZ. 

Vol.    Ye  pitying  saints,  forgive  a  father's  blindness, 
And  extricate  us  from  this  net  of  peril ! 

Ter.    Who  wakes  anew  my  fears,  and  speaks  of  peril  f 

Vol.    O  best  Teresa,  wisely  wert  thtra  prompted  ! 
This  was  no  feat  of  mortal  agency ! 
That  picture — Oh,  that  picture  tells  me  all ! 
With  a  Hash  of  light  it  came,  in  ilatnes  it  vanished, 
Self-kindled,  self-consura'd :  bright  as  thy  Life, 
Sudden  and  unexpected  as  thy  Fate, 
Alvar!    My  Son  I    My  Son!— The  Inquisitor— 

Ter.    Torture  me  not !    But  Alvar— Oh  of  Alvar  f 

Vol.    How  often  would  He  plead  for  these  Morescoes  ? 
The  brood  accurst !  lemorseless,  coward  murderers  J 

Ter.  (wildly.)  Sol  so? — I  comprehend  you — He  is 

Vol.  (with  averted  countenance.)  He  is  no  moiv  ! 

Ter.  O  sorrow !  that  a  Father's  Voice  should  say  this, 
A  Father's  heart  believe  it ! 

Vol.  A  worse  sorrow 

Are  Fancy's  wild  Hopes  to  a  heart  despairing ! 

Ter.  These  rays  that   slant  in  through  these  gorgeous 

windows, 

From  yon  bright  orb — though  coloured  as  they  pass, 
Are  they  not  Light? — Even  so  that  voice,  Lord  Valdez  ! 
Which  whispers  to  my  soul,  though  haply  varied 
By  many  a  Fancy,  many  a  wishful  Hope, 
Speaks  yet  the  Truth:  and  Alvar  lives  for  me ! 

Vol.  Yes,  for  three  wasting  years,  thus  and  no  other, 
He  has  lived  for  thee — a  bpirjt  for  thy  spirit  1 


REMORSE.  215 

My  child,  we  must  not  give  religions  faith 

To  every  voice  which  makes  the  heart  a  listener 

To  its  own  wish. 

Ter.  I  breath'd  to  the  Unerring 

Permitted  prayers.     Must  those  remain  unanswered, 
Yet  impious  Sorcery,  that  holds  no  commune 
Save  with  the  lying  spirit,  claim  helief  ? 

Vol.  O  not  to-day,  not  now  for  the  first  time 
Was  Alvar  lost  to  thee — 

(Turning  off,  aloud,  but  yet  as  to  himself.)  Accurst  assassins! 
Disarmed,  o'erpowered,  despairing  of  defence, 
At  his  bared  breast  he  seem'd  to  grasp  some  relict 
More  dear  than  was  his  life 

Ter.  (with  faint  shriek.)  O  Heavens!  my  portrait ! 

And  he  did  grasp  it  in  his  death  pang ! 

Off,  false  Demon, 
That  beat'st  thy  black  wings  close  above  my  head ! 

[ORDONIO  enters  with  the  keys  of  the  dungeon  in  his  hand. 
Hush !  who  comes  here  ?    The  wizard  Moor's  employer ! 
Moors  were  his  murderers,  you  say  ?    Saints  shield  us 

From  wicked  thoughts 

[VALDEZ  moves  towards  the  back  of  the  stage  to  meet 
ORDONIO,  and  during  the  concluding  lines  of 
TERESA'S  speech  appears  as  eagerly  conversing  with 
him. 

Is  Alvar  dead  ?  what  then  ? 
The  nuptial  rites  and  funeral  shall  be  one ! 
Here's  no  abiding-place  for  thee,  Teresa. — 
Away !  they  see  me  not — Thou  seest  me,  Alvar! 
To  thee  I  bend  my  course. — But  first  one  question, 
One  question  to  Ordonio. — My  limbs  tremble — 
There  I  may  sit  unmark'd — a  moment  will  restore  me. 

[Retires  out  of  sight. 

Ord.  (as  he  advances  with  VALDEZ.)  These  are  the  dungeon 

keys.     Monviedro  knew  not, 
That  I  too  had  received  the  wizard's  message, 
"  He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again." 
But  now  he  is  satisfied.  I  plann'd  this  scheme 
To  work  a  full  conviction  on  the  culprit, 
And  he  entrusts  him  wholly  to  my  keeping. 

Vol.  7Tis  well,  my  son !  But  have  you  yet  discovered 
(Where  is  Teresa?)  what  those  speeches  meant — 
Pride,  and  Hypocrisy,  and  Guilt,  and  Cunning  ? 
Then  when  the  wizard  fix'd  his  eye  on  you, 
And  you,  I  know  not  why,  look'd  pale  and  trembled — 
Why — why,  what  ails  you  now  ? — 

Ord.  (confused.)  Me?  what  ails  me? 

A  pricking  of  the  blood — It  might  have  happened 
At  any  other  time. — Why  scan  you  me  ? 

Vol.  His  speech  about  the  corse,  and  stabs  and  murderers, 
Bore  reference  to  the  assassins 

Ord.  t -.   .;;      Dup'd!  dup'd!  dup'd!      • 


216  REMORSE. 

The  traitor,  Isidore!  [A pause,  then  wlfcly. 

I  tell  thee,  my  dear  father ! 
I  am  most  glad  of  this. 

Vol.  (confused.)  True — Sorcery 

Merits  its  doom ;  and  this  perchance  may  guide  us 
To  the  discovery  of  the  murderers. 
I  have  their  statures  and  their  several  faces 
So  present  to  me,  that  but  ouce  to  meet  them 
Would  be  to  recognize. 

Ord,  Yes  !  yes !  we  recognize  Miem. 

I  was  benumb'd,  and  staggered  up  and  down 
Through  darkness  without  light — dark — dark — dark ! 
My  flesh  crept  chill,  my  limbs  felt  manacled, 
As  had  a  snake  coil'd  round  them ! — Now  'tis  sunshine, 
And  the  blood  dances  freely  through  its  channels ! 

[Turns  off  abruptly  ;  then  to  himself. 
This  is  my  virtuous,  grateful  Isidore ! 

[  Then  mimicking  ISIDORE'S  manner  and  voice. 
"  A  common  trick  of  gratitude,  my  lord!" 
Old  Gratitude !  a  dagger  would  dissect 
His  "  own  full  heart" — 'twere  good  to  see  its  colour. 

Vol.  These  magic  sights!  O  that  I  ne'er  had  yielded 
To  your  entreaties!  Neither  had  I  yielded, 
But  that  in  spite  of  your  own  seeming  faith 
I  held  it  for  some  innocent  stratagem, 
Which  Love  had  prompted,  to  remove  the  doubts 
Of  wild  Teresa — by  fancies  quelling  fancies ! 

Ord.  (in  a  slow  voice, as  reasoning  to  himself.)  Love!  Love! 

and  then  we  hate !  and  what  ?  and  wherefore  ? 
Hatred  and  Love  I  Fancies  opposed  by  fancies ! 
What  ?  if  one  reptile  sting  another  reptile  ? 
Where  is  the  crime  ?    The  goodly  face  of  nature 
Hath  one  disfeaturing  stain  the  less  upon  it. 
Are  we  not  all  predestined  Transiency, 
And  cold  Dishonour  f  Grant  it,  that  this  hand 
Had  given  a  morsel  to  the  hungry  worms 
Somewhat  too  early— Whore's  the  crime  of  this  T 
That  this  must  needs  bring  on  the  idiotcy 
Of  moist-eyed  Penitence — 'tis  like  a  dream ! 

Vol.  Wild  talk,  my  son!  But  thy  excess  of  feeling 

[ Averting  himself. 
Almost  I  fear,  it  hath  unhinged  his  brain. 

Ord.  (now  in  soliloquy,  and  now  addressing  his  father  :  and 
just  after  the  speech  has  commenced,  TERESA  reappear* 
and  advances  slowly.)  Say,  I  had  laid  a  body  in  the 
sun ! 

Well !  in  a  month  there  swarm  forth  from  the  corse 
A  thousand,  nay,  ten  thousand  sentient  beings 
In  place  of  that  one  man. — Say,  I  had  kill'd  him  ! 

[TERESA  starts,  and  stops  listening. 
Yet  who  shall  tell  me,  that  each  one  and  all 
Of  these  ten  thousand  lives  is  not  as  happy, 


REMORSE.  217 

As  that  one  life,  which  being  pushed  aside, 

Made  room  for  these  unnumbered 

Val.  O  mere  madness ! 

[TERESA  moves  hastily  forwards,  and  places  herself 

directly  before  ORDOXIO. 

Ord.  (Checking  the  feeling  of  surprzie  and  forcing  his  /one: 
into  an  expression  of  playful  courtesy.}  Teresa!  or  the 
Phantom  of  Teresa  I 
Ter.  Alas !  the  Phantom  only,  if  in  truth 
The  substance  of  her  Being,  her  Life's  life, 
Have  ta'en  its  flight  through  Alvar's  death-wound — 

[A  pause.]  Where— 

(Even  coward  Murder  grants  the  dead  a  grave) 
O  tell  me,  Valdez! — answer  me,  Ordonio  ! 
Where  lies  the  corse  of  my  betrothed  husband? 

Ord.  There,  where  Ordonio  likewise  would  fain  lie ! 
In  the  sleep-compelling  earth,  in  unpierc'd  darkness ! 
For  while  we  LIVE — 
An  inward  day  that  never,  never  sets, 
Glares  round  the  soul,  and  mocks  the  closing  eyelids ! 
Over  his  rocky  grave  the  Fir-grove  sighs 
A  lulling  ceaseless  dirge !  'Tis  well  with  HIM. 

[Strides  off  in  agitation  towards  the  altar,  hut  returns 

as  VALDEZ  is  speaking. 

Ter.  (recoiling  with  the  expression  appropriate  to  the  passion.} 
The  rock !  the  fir-grove  I  [  To  VALDEZ. 

Dids't  thou  hear  him  say  it  i 
Hush !  I  will  ask  him  ! 

Val.  Urge  him  not — not  now  ! 

This  we  "beheld.    Nor  He  nor  I  know  more, 
Than  what  the  magic  imagery  revealed. 

The  assassin,  who  pressed  foremost  of  the  three 

Ord.  A  tender-hearted,  scrupulous,  grateful  villain, 
Whom  I  will  strangle ! 

Val.  (looking  with  anxious  disquiet  at  his  Son,  yet  attempt- 
ing to  proceed  with  his  description.)     While  his  two 

companions 

Ord.  Dead !  dead  already !  what  care  we  for  the  dead  ? 
Val.  (to  TERESA.)    Pity  him!   soothe  him!    disenchant 

his  spirit ! 

These  supernatural  shews,  this  strange  disclosure, 
And  this  too  fond  affection,  which  still  broods 
O'er  Alvar's  Fate,  and  still  burns  to  avenge  it — 
These,  struggling  with  his  hopeless  love  for  you, 
Distemper  him,  and  give  reality 
To  the  creatures  of  his  fancy. 

Ord.  Is  it  so  ? 

Yes !  yes!  even  like  a  child,  that  too  abruptly 
Roused  by  a  glare  of  light  from  deepest  sleep 
Starts  up  bewildered  and  talks  idly.  [  Then  mysteriously. 

Father! 
What  if  the  Moors  that  made  my  brother's  grave, 


f 


218  REMORSE. 

Even  now  were  digging  ours  ?  What  if  the  bolt, 
Though  aim'd,  I  doubt  not,  at  the  son  of  Valdez, 
Yet  miss'd  its  true  aim  when  it  fell  on  Alvar  ? 

Val.  Alvar  ne'er  fought  against  the  Moors,— say  rather; 
He  was  their  advocate  ;  but  you  had  niarch'd 
With  fire  and  desolation  through  their  villages. — 
Yet  he  by  chance  was  captured. 

Ord.  Unknown,  perhaps, 

Captured,  yet  as  the  son  of  Valdez,  murdered. 
Leave  all  to  me.    Nay,  whither,  gentle  Lady  ? 

Val.  What  seek  you  now  ? 

Ter.  A  better,  surer  light 

To  guide  me 

Both  Val.  and  Ord.  Whither  f 

Ter.  To  the  only  place 

Where  life  yet  dwells  for  me,  and  ease  of  heart. 
These  walls  seem  threatening  to  fall  in  upon  me! 
Detain  me  not !  a  dim  power  drives  me  hence, 
And  that  will  be  my  guide. 

Val.  To  find  a  lover! 

Suits  that  a  high  born  maiden's  modesty  ? 

0  folly  and  shame !  Tempt  not  my  rage,  Teresa ! 
Tcr.  Hopeless,  I  fear  no  human  being's  rage. 

And  am  I  hastening  to  the  arms O  Heaven! 

1  haste  but  to  the  grave  of  my  beloved! 

[ Exit,  VALDEZ  following  after  her. 
Ord.  This,  then,  is  my  reward  !  and  I  must  love  her  i 
Scorn'd!  shudderM  at!  yet  love  her  still?  yes!  yes ! 
13y  the  deep  feelings  of  Revenge  and  Hate 
I  will  still  love  her — woo  her— ivin  her  too !  [  A  pause. 

Isidore  safe  and  silent,  and  the  portrait 
Found  on  the  wizard — he,  belike,  self-poison'd 

To  escape  the  crueller  flames My  soul  shouts  triumph 

The  mine  is  undermined  !  Blood!  Blood!  Blood! 

They  thirst  for  thy  blood!   thy  blood,  Ordonio!     [J  pause. 

The  Hunt  is  up!  and  in  the  midnight  wood 

With  lights  to  dazzle  and  with  nets  they  seek 

A  timid  prey:  and  lo!  the  tiger's  eye 

Glares  in  the  red  flame  of  his  hunter's  torch ! 

To  Isidore  I  will  dispatch  a  message, 

And  lure  him  to  the  cavern !  aye,  that  cavern  ! 

He  cannot  fail  to  find  it.     Thither  I'll  lure  him, 

Whence  he  shall  never,  never  more  return ! 

[Looks  through  the  side icincloio. 
A  rim  of  the  sun  lies  yet  upon  the  sea, 
And  now  'tis  gone !  All  shall  be  done  to-night.  [Exit. 


KEMORSE.  219 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — A  cavern,  dark,  except  where  a  gleam  of  moonlight 
is  seen  on  one  side  at  the  further  end  of  it;  supposed  to  be 
cast  on  it  from  a  crevice  in  a  part  of  the  cavern  out  of 
sight.      ISIDORE  alone,  an  extinguished  torch  in  his  hand. 
Isid.  Faith  'twas  a  moving  letter — very  moving  ! 
"  His  life  iri  danger,  no  place  safe  but  this ! 
"  'Twiis  his  turn  now  to  talk  of  gratitude." 
And  yet — but  no !  there  can't  be  such  a  villain. 
It  can  not  be ! 

Thanks  to  that  little  crevice, 
Which  lets  the  moonlight  in !  I'll  go  and  sit  by  it. 
To  peep  at  a  tree,  or  see  a  he-goat's  beard, 
Or  hear  a  cow  or  two  breathe  loud  in  their  sleep — 
Any  thing  but  this  crash  of  water  drops! 
These  dull  abortive  sounds  that  fret  the  silence 
With  puny  thwartings  and  mock  opposition  ! 
So  beats  the  death-watch  to  a  sick  man's  ear. 

\_Re  goes  out  of  sight,  opposite  to  the  patch  of  moon- 
light :  returns  after  a  minute's  elapse,  in  an  extasy 
of  fear. 

A  hellish  pit  I    The  very  same  I  dreamt  of  I 
I  was  just  in — and  those  damn'd  fingers  of  ice 
Which  clutch'd  my  hair  up!    Ha! — what's  that — it  mov'd. 
[ISIDORE  stands  staring  at  another  recess  in  the  cavern. 
In  the  meantime  ORDONIO  enters  with  a  torch,  and 
halloos  to  ISIDORE. 

Isid.  I  swear  that  I  saw  something  moving  there ! 
The  moonshine  came  and  went  like  a  flash  of  lightning — 
I  swear,  I  saw  it  move. 

Ord.  (goes  into  the  recess,  then  returns,  and  with  great  scorn.) 

A  jutting  clay  stone 

Props  on  the  long  lank  weed,  that  grows  beneath : 
And  the  weed  nods  and  drips. 

Isid.  (forcing  a  laugh  faintly.)  A  jest  to  laugh  at! 
It  was  not  that  which  scar'd  me,  good  my  lord. 
Ord.  What  scar'd  you,  then  ? 

Isid.  You  see  that  little  rift  I 

But  first  permit  me ! 

\_Lights  his  torch  at  ORDONIO'S  and  while  lighting  it, 

(A  lighted  torch  in  the  hand, 
Is  no  unpleasant  object  here — one's  breath 
Floats  round  the  flame,  and  makes  as  many  colours 
As  the  thin  clouds  that  travel  near  the  moon.) 
You  see  that  crevice  there  ? 
My  torch  extinguished  by  these  water  drops, 
And  marking  that  the  moonlight  came  from  thence, 
I  stept  in  to  it,  meaning  to  sit  there  ;* 
But  scarcely  had  I  measured  twenty  paces — 
My  body  bending  forward,  yea,  o'erbalanced 


220 


REMORSE. 


Almost  beyond  recoil,  on  the  dim  brink 
Of  a  huge  chasin  I  stept.     The  shadowy  moonshine 
Filling  the  Void  so  counterfeited  Substance, 
That  iny  foot  hung  aslant  adown  the  edge. 
Was  it  my  own  fear  f 

Fear  too  hath  its  instincts ! 
(And  yet  such  dens  as  these  are  wildly  told  of, 
And  there  are  Beings  that  live,  yet  not  for  the  eye) 
An  arm  of  frost  above  and  from  behind  me 
Pluck'd  up  and  snatch'd  me  backward.      Merciful  Heaven 
You  smile !  alas,  even  smiles  look  ghastly  here ! 
My  lord,  I  pray  you,  go  yourself  and  view  it.  [yon. 

Orel.  It  must  have  shot  some  pleasant  feelings  through 

Isid.  If  every  atom  of  a  dead  man's  flesh 
Should  creep,  each  one  with  a  particular  life, 
Yet  all  as  cold  as  ever — 'twas  just  so ! 
Or  had  it  drizzled  needle  points  of  frost 
Upon  a  feverish  head  made  suddenly  bald — 

Ord.  (interrupting  him.)  Why  Isidore, 

I  blush  for  thy  cowardice.    It  might  have  startled, 
I  grant  you,  even  a  brave  man  for  a  moment — 
But  such  a  panic — 

laid.  When  a  boy,  my  lord  ! 

I  could  have  sate  whole  hours  beside  that  chasm, 
Push'd  in  huge  stones  and  heard  them  strike  and  rattle 
Against  its  horrid  sides:  then  hung  my  head 
Low  down,  and  listen  till  the  heavy  fragments 
Sank  with  faint  crash  in  that  still  groaning  well, 
Which  never  thirsty  pilgrims  blest,  which  never 
A  living  thing  came  near — unless,  perchance, 
Some  blind-worm  battens  on  the  ropy  mould 
Close  at  its  edge. 

Ord.  Art  thou  more  coward  now  f 

laid.  Call  him,  that  fears  his  fellow  man,  a  coward! 
I  fear  not  man — but  this  inhuman  cavern, 
It  were  too  bad  a  prison  house  for  goblins. 
Beside,  (you'll  smile  my  lord)  but  true  it  is, 
My  last  night's  sleep  was  very  sorely  haunted 
By  what  had  passed  between  us  in  the  morning. 

0  sleep  of  horrors!     Now  run  down  and  stared  at 
By  Forms  so  hideous  that  they  mock  remembrance — 
Now  seeing  nothing  and  imagining  nothing, 

But  only  being  afraid — stifled  with  Fear! 

While  eVery  goodly  or  familiar  form 

Had  a  strange  power  of  breathing  terror  round  me  I 

1  saw  you  in  a  thousand  fearful  shapes ; 
And,  I  entreat  your  lordship  to  believe  me, 
In  my  last  dream 

Ord.  Well  ? 

Isid.  I  wae  in  the  act 

Of  falling  down  that  chasm,  when  Alhadra 
Wak'd  me :  she  heard  my  heart  beat. 


BEMORSE.  221 

Orel.  Strange  enough ! 

Had  you  been  licro  before  ? 

Isid.  Never,  my  lord ! 

But  mine  eyes  do  not  see  it  now  more  clearly, 
Than  in  my  dream  I  saw — that  very  chasm. 

Ord.  (stands  lout  in  thought,  then  after  a  pause.)  I  know  not 
why  it  should  be!  yet  it  is — 

Isid.  What  is,  my  lord? 

Ord.  Abhorrent  from  our  nature, 

To  kill  a  man. — 

Isid.  Except  in  self  defence.  [it — 

Ord.  Why  that's  my  case  ;  and  yet  the  soul  recoils  frcm 
'Tis  so  with  me  at  least.     But  you,  perhaps, 
Have  sterner  feelings  ? 

Isid.  Something  troubles  you. 

How  shall  I  serve  you  ?    By  the  life  you  gave  me, 
By  all  that  makes  that  life  of  value  to  me, 
My  wife,  my  babes,  my  honour,  I  swear  to  you, 
Name  it,  and  I  will  toil  to  do  the  thing 
If  it  be  innocent!     But  this,  my  lord! 
Is  not  a  place  where  you  could  perpetrate, 
No  nor  propose,  a  wicked  thing.     The  darkness, 
When  ten  strides  off  we  know  'tis  cheerful  moonlight, 
Collects  the  guilt,  and  crowds  it  round  the  heart. 
It  must  be  innocent. 

[ORDONIO  darkly,  and  in  the  feeling  of  self  justifica- 
tion, tells  what  he  conceives  of  his  own  character 
and  actions,  speaking  of  himself  in  the  third  per- 
son. 

Ord.  Thyself  be  judge. 

One  of  our  family  knew  this  place  well. 

Isid.  Who  ?  when  ?  my  lord  ? 

Ord.  What  boots  it,  who  or  when  ? 
Hang  up  thy  torch — I'll  tell  his  tale  to  thee. 

[  They  hang  up  their  torches  on  some  ridge  in  the  cavern. 
He  was  a  man  different  from  other  men, 
And  he  despised  them,  yet  revered  himself.  [thyself! 

Isid.  (aside.)  He?  He  despised?  Thou'rt  speaking  of 
I  am  on  my  guard  however :  no  surprize.  [  Then  to  ORDONIO. 
What  he  was  mad  ? 

Ord.  All  men  seemed  mad  to  him! 

Nature  had  made  him  for  some  other  planet, 
And  pressed  his  soul  into  a  human  shape 
By  accident  or  malice.    In  this  world 
He  found  no  fit  companion. 

Isid.  Of  himself  bespeaks.     I  Aside. 

Alas!  poor  wretch! 
Mad  men  are  mostly  proud. 

Ord.  He  walked  alone, 

And  phantom  thoughts  unsought-for  troubled  him. 
Something  within  would  still  be  shadowing  out 
All  possibilities ;  and  with  these  shadows 


222  REMORSE. 

His  mind  held  dalliance.    Once,  as  so  it  happened, 
A  fancy  crossed  him  wilder  than  the  rest : 
To  this  in  moody  murmur  and  low  voice 
He  yielded  utterance,  as  some  talk  in  sleep  : 
The  man  who  heard  him. — 

Why  didst  thou  look  round  ? — 

Isid.  I  have  a  prattler  three  years  old.  my  lord! 
In  truth  he  is  my  darling.     As  I  went 
From  forth  my  door,  he  made  a  moan  in  sleep — 
But  I  am  talking  idly — pray  proceed! 
And  what  did  this  man  f 

Ord.  With  his  human  hand 

He  gave  a  substance  and  reality 
To  that  wild  fancy  of  a  possible  thing — 
Well  it  was  done !  [  Then  very  wildly. 

Why  babblest  thou  of  guilt  ? 
The  deed  was  done,  and  it  passed  fairly  off. 
And  he  whose  tale  I  tell  thee— dost  thou  listen  ? 

laid.  I  would  my  lord  you  were  by  my  fire-side, 
I'd  listen  to  you  with  an  eager  eye, 
Though  you  began  this  cloudy  tale  at  midnight, 
But  I  do  listen — pray  proceed  my  lord. 

Ord.  Where  was  I  ? 

laid.  He  of  whom  you  tell  the  tale — 

Ord.  Surveying  all  things  with  a  quiet  scorn, 
Tamed  himself  down  to  living  purposes, 
The  occupations  and  the  semblances 
Of  ordinary  men — and  such  he  seemed ! 
But  that  same  over  ready  agent — he — 

Isid.  Ah  !  what  of  him,  my  lord  ? 

Ord.  He  proved  a  traitor, 

Betrayed  the  mystery  to  a  brother  traitor, 
And  they  between  them  hatch' d  a  damned  plot 
To  hunt  him  down  to  infamy  and  death. 
What  did  the  Valdez  ?    I  am  proud  of  the  name 
Since  he  dared  do  it — 

[ORDONIO  grasps  his   sword,   and  turns   off  from 
ISIDORE,  then  after  a  pause  returns. 

Our  links  burn  dimly. 

Isid.  A  dark  tale  darkly  finished!    Nay,  my  lord ! 
Tell  what  he  did. 

Ord.  That  which  his  wisdom  prompted — 
He  made  the  Traitor  meet  him  in  this  cavern, 
And  here  he  kill'd  the  Traitor. 

Isid.  No !  the  fool ! 

He  had  not  wit  enough  to  be  a  traitor. 
Poor  thick-eyed  beetle !  not  to  have  foreseen 
That  he  who  gulled  thee  with  a  whimpered  lie 
To  murder  his  own  brother,  would  not  scruple 
To  murder  thee,  if  e'er  his  guilt  grew  jealous, 
And  he  could  steal  upon  thee  in  the  dark ! 

Ord.  Thou  would'st  not  then  have  come,  if — 


REMORSE.  223 

laid.  Oh  yes,  my  lord  ! 
I  would  have  met  him  arm'd,  and  scar'd  the  coward. 

[ISIDORE  throws  off  his  role;  shews  himself  armed 

and  draws  his  sword. 

Ord.  Now  that  is  excellent  and  warms  the  blood! 
My  heart  was  drawing  back,  drawing  me  back 
With  weak  and  womanish  scruples.    Now  my  Vengeance 
Beckons  me  onward  with  a  Warior's  mien, 
And  claims  that  life,  my  pity  robb'd  her  of  — 
Now  will  I  kill  thee,  thankless  slave,  and  count  it 
Among  my  comfortable  thoughts  hereafter. 
laid.  And  all  my  little  ones  fatherless  — 

Die  thou  first. 

[They  fight,  ORDONIO  disarms  ISIDORE,  and  in  dis- 
arming him  throws  his  sword  up  that  recess  oppo- 
site to  which  they  were  standing.  ISIDORE  hurries 
into  the  recess  with  his  torch,  ORDONIO  follows 
him;  a  loud  cry  of  "  Traitor!  Monster!"  is  heard 
from  the  cavern,  and  in  a  moment  ORDONIO  returns 
alone. 
Ord.  I  have  hurl'd  him  down  the  Chasm  !  Treason  for 

Treason. 

He  dreamt  of  it  :  henceforward  let  him  wleep, 
A  dreamless  sleep,  from  which  no  wife  can  wake  him. 
His  dream  too  is  made  out  —  Now  for  his  friend. 

lExit  ORDONIO. 

SCENE  II.*  —  The  Interior   Court  of  a  Saracenic  or  Gothic 
Castle,  with  the  Iron  Gate  of  Dungeon  visible. 


Ter.  Heart-chilling  Superstition  !  thou  canst  glaze 
Ev'n  Pity's  eye  with  her  own  frozen  tear. 
In  vain  1  urge  the  tortures  that  awaits  him  ; 
Even  Selma,  reverend  guardian  of  my  childhood, 
My  second  mother,  shuts  her  heart  against  me  ! 
Well,  I  have  won  from  her  what  most  imports 
The  present  need,  this  secret  of  the  dungeon 
Known  only  to  herself.  —  A  Moor  !  a  Sorcerer  f 
No,  I  have  faith,  th.it  nature  ne'er  permitted 
Baseness  to  wear  a  form  so  noble.    True, 
I  doubt  not,  that  Ordonio  had  suborned  him 
To  act  some  part  in  some  unholy  fraud  ; 
As  little  doubt,  that  for  some  unknown  purpose 
He  hath  baffled  his  suborner,  terror-struck  him, 
And  that  Ordonio  medi  dates  revenge  ! 
But  my  resolve  is  fixed!  myself  will  rescue  him, 
And  learn  if  haply  he  know  aught  of  Alvar. 

Enter  VALDEZ. 

Vol.  Still  sad  ?  —  and  gazing  at  the  massive  door 
*  Vide  Appendix,  p.  235. 


224  REMORSE. 

Of  that  fell  Dungeon  which  thou  ne'er  had'st  sight  of, 
Mare  what,  perchance,  thy  infant  fancy  shap'd  it 
"When  the  nurse  stilPd  thy  cries  with  unmeant  threats. 
Now  hy  my  faith,  Girl !  this  same  wizard  haunts  thee! 
A  stately  man,  and  eloquent  and  tender — 
(with  a  sneer)  Who  they  need  wonder  if  a  lady  sighs 
Even  at  the  thought  of  what  these  stern  Dominicans — 

Ter.  (with  solemn  indignation.)  The  horror  of  their  ghastly 

punishments. 

Doth  so  overtop  the  height  of  all  compassion, 
That  I  should  feel  too  little  for  mine  enemy, 
If  it  were  possible  I  could  feel  more, 
Even  though  the  dearest  inmates  of  our  household 
Were  doom'd  to  suffer  them.    That  such  things  are — 

Vol.  Hush,  thoughtless  woman  ! 

Ter.  Nay  it  wakes  within  ine 

More  than  a  woman's  spirit. 

Vol.  No  more  of  this — 

What  if  Monviedro  or  his  creatures  hear  us  ! 
I  dare  not  listen  to  you. 

Ter.  My  honoured  lord, 

These  were  my  Alvar's  lessons,  and  whene'er 
I  hend  me  o'er  his  portrait,  I  repeat  them, 
As  if  to  give  a  voice  to  the  mute  Image. 

Vol.  We  have  mourned  for  Alvar. 

Of  his  sad  fate  there  now  remains  no  doubt. 
Have  I  no  other  son  ? 

Ter.  Speak  not  of  him! 

That  low  imposture !    That  mysterious  picture ! 
If  this  be  madness,  must  I  wed  a  madman  f 
And  if  not  madness,  there  is  mystery, 
And  guilt  doth  lurk  behind  it. 

Val.  Is  this  well? 

Ter.  Yes,  it  is  truth  :  saw  you  his  countenance  T 
TIow  rage,  remorse,  and  scorn,  and  stupid  fear. 
Displaced  each  other  with  swift  interchanges  ? 

0  that  I  had  indeed  the  sorcerer's  power. 

1  would  call  up  before  thine  eyes  the  image 
<  *f  my  betrothed  Alvar,  of  thy  First-born  ! 

1  [is  own  fair  countenance,  his  kingly  forehead. 
His  tender  smiles,  love's  day-dawn  on  his  lips! 
That  spiritual  and  almost  heavenly  light 
In  his  commanding  eye — his  mien  heroic, 
Virtue's  own  native  heraldry!  to  man 
Denial,  and  pleasant  to  his  guardian  angel. 
Whene'er  he  gladdeu'd,  how  the  gladness  spread 
Wide  round  him  !  and  when  oft  with  swelling  tears, 
Flash'd  through  by  indignation,  he  bowail'd 
The  wrongs  of  Belgium's  martyr' d  patriots, 
Oh,  what  a  Grief  was  there — for  Joy  to  envy, 
Or  gaze  upon  enamour'd  ! 

O  my  father! 


EEMORSE.  225 

Recall  that  morning  when  we  knelt  together, 

And  thou  didst  bless  our  loves  !     O  even  now, 

Even  now,  my  sire!  to  thy  mind's  eye  present  him 

As  at  that  moment  he  rose  up  before  thee, 

Stately,  with  beaming  look !    Place,  place  besides  him 

Ordouio's  dark  perturbed  countenance! 

Then  bid  me  (Oh  thou  could' st  not)  bid  me  turn 

From  him,  the  joy,  the  triumph  of  our  kind ! 

To  take  in  excharge  that  brooding  man,  who  never 

Lifts  up  his  eye  from  the  earth,  unless  to  scowl. 

Vol.  Ungrateful  woman !     I  have  tried  to  stifle 
An  old  man's  passion!  was  it  not  enough, 
That  thou  hast  made  my  son  a  restless  man, 
Bauish'd  his  health,  and  half  unhing'd  his  reason  ; 
But  that  thou  wilt  insult  him  with  suspicion ! 
And  toil  to  blast  his  honour!     I  am  old, 
A  comfortless  old  man ! 

Ter.  O  grief !  to  hear 

Hateful  intreaties  from  a  voice  we  love  ! 

Enter  a  Peasant  and  presents  a  letter  to  VALDKZ. 

Vol.  (reading  it.)  "He  dares  not  venture  hither!"    Why 

what  can  this  mean  ? 
"  Lest  the  Familiars  of  the  Inquisition, 
"  That  watch  around  my  gates,  should  intercept  him  ; 
"But  he  conjures  me,  that  without  delay 
"  I  hasten  to  him — for  my  own  sake  entreats  me 
"  To  guard  from  danger  him  I  hold  iinprison'd — 
"He  will  reveal  a  secret,  the  joy  of  which 
"  Will  even  outweigh  the  sorrow." — Why  what  can  this  be  ? 
Perchance  it  is  some  Moorish  stratagem, 
To  have  in  me  an  hostage  for  his  safety. 
Nay,  that  they  dare  not !  Ho !  collect  my  servants ! 
I  will  go  thither — letthem  arm  themselves.     [ KJC?  t  VALDKZ. 

Ter.  (alone. )  The  moon  is  high  in  heaven, and  all  is  hush'd. 
Yet  anxious  listener !    I  have  seem'd  to  hear 
A  low  dead  thunder  mutter  thro7  the  night. 
As  'twere  a  giant  angry  in  his  sleep. 
O  Alvar !  Alvar !  that  they  could  return 
Those  blessed  days  that  imitated  heaven, 
When  we  two  wont  to  walk  at  even  tide  ; 
When  we  saw  nought  but  beauty  ;  when  we  heard 
The  voice  of  that  Almighty  One  who  loved  us 
In  every  gale  that  breathed,  and  wave  that  murmur'd  I 
O  we  have  listened,  even  till  high-wrought  pleasure 
Hath  half  assumed  the  countenance  of  grief, 
And  the  deep  sigh  seemed  to  heave  up  a  weight 
Of  bliss,  that  pressed  too  heavy  on  the  heart.         [  A  pause. 
And  this  majestic  Moor,  peems  he  not  one 
Who  oft  and  long  communing  with  my  Alvar 
Hath  drunk  in  kindred  lustre  from  his  presence, 
J* 


226  REMORSE. 

And  'guides  mo  to  him  with  reflected  light  ? 

What  if  in  yon  dark  dungeon  coward  Treachery 

Be  groping  for  him  with  envenomed  poignard — 

Hence  womanish  fears,  traitors  to  love  and  duty — 

I'll  free  him.  I  Exit  TERESA. 

SCENE  III. — The  mountains  by  moonlight.    ALHADRA  alone  in 

a  Moorish  dress. 
Alii.  Yon  hanging  woods,  that  touch'dhy  autumn  seem 

As  if  they  were  blossoming  hues  of  fire  and  gold; 

The  flower-like  woods,  most  lovely  in  decay, 

The  many  clouds,  the  sea,  the  rock,  the  sands, 

Lie  in  the  silent  moonshine ;  and  the  owl, 

(Strange!  very  strange !)  the  screech-owl  only  wakes ! 

Solo  voice,  sole  eye  of  all  this  Avorld  of  beauty  ! 

Unless,  perhaps,  she  sing  her  screeching  song 

To  a  heard  of  wolves,  that  skulk  athirst  for  blood. 

Why  such  a  thing  am  I ! — Where  are  these  men  ? 

I  need  the  sympathy  of  human  faces, 

To  beat  away  this  deep  contempt  for  all  things, 

Which  quenches  my  revenge.    Oh  !  would  to  Alia, 

The  raven,  or  the  sea-mew,  were  appointed 

To  bring  me  food  !  or  rather  that  my  soul 

Could  drink  in  life  from  the  universal  air ! 

It  were  a  lot  divine  in  some  small  skiff 

Along  some  Ocean's  boundless  solitude, 

To  float  for  ever  with  a  careless  course, 

And  think  myself  the  only  Being  alive ! 

My  children  ! — Isidore's  children  1 — Son  of  Valdez, 

This  hath  new  strung  mine  arm.     Thou  coward  Tyrant  1 

To  stupify  a  Woman's  Hearfc  with  anguish, 

Till  she  forgot — even  that  she  was  a  Mother! 

[She  fixes  her  eye  on  the  eirtk.  Then  drop  in  one  after 
another,  from  different  parts  of  the  stage,  a  considerable 
number  of  Morescoes,  all  in  Moorish  garment*  and 
Moorish  armour.  They  form  a  circle  at  a  distance 
round  ALHADRA,  and  remain  silent  till  the  Second  in 
command,  NAOMI,  enters,  distinguished  by  his  dress  and 
armour,  and  by  the  silent  obeisance  paid  to  him  on  his 
entrance  by  the  other  Moors. 
Nao.  Woman !  May  Alia  and  the  prophet  bless  thee ! 

We  have  obeyed  thy  call.     Where  is  our  chief? 

And  why  didst  thou  enjoin  these  Moorish  garments  ? 

Alh.  (raising  her  eyes  and   looking  round  on    the  circle.) 
Warriors  of  Mahomet !  faithful  in  the  battle ! 

My  countrymen !     Come  ye  prepared  to  work 

An  honourable  deed  ?    And  would  ye  work  it 

In  the  slave's  garb  I    Curse  on  those  Christian  robes! 

They  are  spell-blasted  :  and  whoever  wears  them, 

His  arm  shrinks  wither'd,  his  heart  melts  away, 

And  his  bones  soften. 


REMORSE.  227 

Nao.  Where  is  Isidore  ? 

Alh.  (in  a  deep  low  voice.)  This  night  I  went  from  forth 

my  house,  and  left 

His  children  all  asleep  :  and  he  was  living ! 
And  I  return'd  and  found  them  still  asleep, 
But  he  had  perished 

A II  Morescoes.  Perished  ? 

Alh.  He  had  perished! 

Sleep  on,  poor  babes  !  not  one  of  you  doth  know 
That  he  is  fatherless — a  desolate  orphan  ! 
Why  should  we  wake  them  ?    Can  an  infant's  arm 
Revenge  his  murder  ? 

One  Moresco  (to  another.)  Did  she  say  his  murder  ? 

Nao.  Murder  f    Not  murdered  ? 

Alh.  Murdered  by  a  Christian  ! 

[They  all  at  once  draw  their  sabres. 

Alh.  (to  NAOMI,  who  advances  from  the  circle.)  Brother  of 

Zagri !  fling  away  thy  sword  ; 
This  is  thy  chieftain's !  [He  steps  forward  to  take  it. 

Dost  thou  dare  receive  it  I 
For  I  have  sworn  by  Alia  and  the  Prophet, 
No  tear  shall  dim  these  eyes,  this  woman's  heart 
Shall  heave  no  groan,  till  I  have  seen  that  sword 
Wet  with  the  life-blood  of  the  son  of  Valdez '          [A  pause. 
Ordonio  was  your  chieftain's  murderer ! 

Nao.  He  dies,  by  Alia ! 

All.  (kneeling.)  Bj  Alia! 

Alh.  This  night  your  chieftain  armed  himself, 
And  hurried  from  me.     But  I  followed  him 
At  distance,  till  I  saw  him  enter — there  ! 

Nao.  The  cavern  ? 

Alh.  Yes,  the  mouth  of  yonder  cavern. 
After  a  while  I  saw  the  son  of  Valdez 
Rush  by  with  flaring  torch  :  he  likewise  entered. 
There  was  another  and  a  longer  pause ; 
And  once,  methought  I  heard  the  clash  of  swords  ! 
And  soon  the  son  of  Valdez  re-appeared  : 
Hs  flung  his  torch  towards  the  moon  in  sport, 
And  seemed  as  he  were  mirthful !     I  stood  listening, 
Impatient  for  the  footsteps  of  my  husband ! 

Nao.  Thou  called'st  him  ? 

Alh.  I  crept  into  the  cavern — 

'Twas  dark  and  very  silent.  [Then  wildly. 

What  saidst  thou  f 
No !  no  !  I  did  not  dare  call,  Isidore, 
Lest  I  should  hear  no  answer!    A  brief  while, 
Belike,  I  lost  all  thought  and  memory 
Of  that  for  which  I  came  !    After  that  pause, 
O  Heaven !  I  heard  a  groan,  and  followed  it : 
And  yet  another  groan,  which  guided  me 
Into  a  strange  recess — and  there  was  light, 
A  hideous  light !  his  torch  lay  on  the  ground. 


228  REMORSE. 

Its  flame  burut  dimly  o'er  a  chasm's  brink  : 
I  spake ;  and  whilst  I  spake,  a  feeble  groan 
Came  from  that  chasrn !  it  was  his  last !  his  death-groan  ! 

Nao.  Comfort  her,  Alia. 

A Ih.  I  stood  in  unimaginable  trance 
And  agony  that  cannot  be  remembered, 
Listening  with  horrid  hope  to  hear  a  groan  ! 
But  I  had  heard  his  last :  my  husband's  death-groan  I 

Nao.  Haste !  let  us  onward. 

Alh.  I  looked  far  down  the  pit — 

My  sight  was  bounded  by  a  jutting  fragment: 
And  it  Avas  stained  with  blood.    Then  first  I  shrieked, 
My  eye-balls  burnt,  my  brain  grew  hot  as  fire, 
And  all  the  hanging  drops  of  the  wet  roof 
Turned  into  blood — I  saw  them  turn  to  blood! 
And  I  was  leaping  wildly  down  the  chasm, 
When  on  the  farther  brink  I  saw  his  sword, 
And  it  said,  Vengeance !-  Curses  on  ray  tongue! 
The  moon  hath  moved  in  Heaven,  and  I  am  here, 
And  he  hath  not  had  vengeance  !  Isidore  ' 
Spirit  of  Isidore !   thy  murderer  lives ! 
Away!  away! 

All.  Away,  away!  [She  rushes  off,  all  following  her. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — A  Dungeon.    ALVAR  (alone)  rises  slowly  from 
bed  of  reeds. 

Air.  And  this  place  my  forefathers  made  for  man ! 
This  is  the  process  of  our  Love  and  Wisdom 
To  each  poor  brother  who  offends  against  us — 
Most  innocent,  perhaps — and  what  if  guilty  f 
Is  this  the  only  cure?    Merciful  God 
Each  pore  and  natural  outlet  shrivelled  up 
By  Ignorance  and  parching  Poverty, 
His  energies  roll  back  upon  his  heart 
And  stagnate  and  corrupt,  till,  chang'd  to  poison, 
They  break  out  on  him,  like  a  loathsome  plague-spot ! 
Then  we  call  in  our  pampered  moutebanks  ; 
And  this  is  their  best  cure!  uncoinforted 
And  friendless  Solitude,  Groaning  and  Tears, 
And  savage  Faces,  at  the  clanking  hour, 
Seen  through  the  steam  and  vapours  of  his  dungeon 
By  the  lamp's  dismal  twilight!     So  he  lies 
Circled  with  evil,  till  his  very  soul 
tlnmoulds  its  essence,  hopelessly  deformed 
By  sights  of  evermore  deformity! 
With  other  ministrations  thou,*O  Nature ! 
Healest  thy  wandering  and  distempered  child: 


REMORSE.  229 

Thou  pourest  on  him  thy  soft  influences, 

Thy  sunny  hues,  fair  forms,  and.  breathing  sweets  j 

Thy  melodies  of  woods,  and  winds,  and  waters! 

Till  he  relent,  and  can  no  more  endure 

To  be  a  jarring  and  a  dissonant  thing 

Amid  this  general  dance  and  minstrelsy ; 

But,  bursting  into  tears,  wins  back  his  way, 

His  angry  spirit  healed  and  harmonized 

By  the  benignant  torch  of  love  and  beauty. 

I  am  chill  and  weary!     Yon  rude  bench  of  stone, 

In  that  dark  angle,  the  sole  resting-place ! 

hut  the  self- approving  mind  is  its  own  light, 

And  life's  best  warmth  still  radiates  from  the  heart 

Where  love  sits  brooding,  and  an  honest  purpose. 

[Retires  out  of  sight. 

Enter  TERESA  with  a  Taper. 

Ter.  It  has  chilled  my  very  life my  own  voice  scares 

me ; 

Yet  when  I  hear  it  not,  I  seem  to  lose 
The  substance  of  my  being — my  strongest  grasp 
Sends  inwards  but  weak  witness  that  I  am. 
I  seek  to  cheat  the  echo. — How  the  half  sounds 
Blend  with  this  strangled  light !    Is  he  not  here— 

[Looking  round. 

O  for  one  human  face  here— but  to  see 
One  human  face  here  to  sustain  me.— Courage ! 
It  is  but  my  own  fear !    The  life  within  me, 
It  sinks  and  wavers  like  this  cone  of  flame, 
Beyond  which  I  scarce  dare  look  onward!     Oh ! 

[Shuddering. 

If  I  faint  ?    If  this  inhuman  den  should  be 
At  once  my  death-bed  and  my  burial  vault  ? 

[Faintly  screams  as  ALVAR  emerges  from  the  recess. 
Alv.  (rushes  towards  her,  and  catches  her  as  she  is  falling.) 
O  gracious  heaven  !  it  is,  it  is  Teresa! 
Shall  I  reveal  myself?    The  sudden  shock 
Of  rapture  will  blow  out  this  spark  of  life, 
And  Joy  complete  what  Terror  has  begun. 

0  ye  impetuous  beatings  here,  be  still ! 
Teresa,  best  beloved!  pale,  pale,  and  cold! 
Her  pulse  doth  flutter !    Teresa !  my  Teresa ! 

Ter.  (recovering,  looks  round  wildly.)  I  heard  a  voice;  but 
often  in  my  dreams 

1  hear  that  voice!  and  wake,  and  try — and  try — 
To  hear  it  waking !  but  I  never  could — 

And 'tis  so  now — even  so!    Well!  he  is  dead — 
Murdered  perhaps !    And  I  am  faint,  and  feel 
As  if  it  were  no  painful  thing  to  die ! 

Alv.  (eagerly.)  Believe  it  not,  sweet  maid!  Believe  it  not, 
Beloved  woman !  'Twas  a  low  imposture, 
Framed  by  a  guilty  wretch. 


230  BEMORSE.- 

Ter.  (retires  from  him,  and  feebly  supports  herself  against  a 
pillar  of  the  dungeon,)  Ha  !  who  art  thou  ? 

Alv.  (exceedingly  affected.)  Suborned  by  his  brother — 

Ter.  Did'st  thou  murder  him  ? 

And  dost  thou  now  repent  ?    Poor  troubled  man, 
I  do  forgive  thee,  and  may  Heaven  forgive  thee ! 

Alv.  Ordonio— he — 

Ter.  If  thou  didst  murder  him — 

His  spirit  ever  at  the  throne  of  God 
Asks  mercy  for  thee  :  prays  for  mercy  for  thee, 
With  tears  in  Heaven  ! 

Alv.  Alvar  was  not  murdered. 

Be  calm !    Be  calm,  sweet  maid ! 

Ter.  (wildly.)  Nay,  nay,  but  tell  me! 

[_A  pause,  then  presses  her  forehead. 

O  'tis  lost  again  ! 
This  dull  confused  pain —        \_A  pause,  she  gazes  at  ALVAR. 

Mysterious  man ! 

Methinks  I  cannot  fear  thee  :  for  thine  eye 
Doth  swim  with  love  and  pity — Well !  Ordonio — 
Oh  my  foreboding  heart !    And  he  suborned  thee, 
And  thou  didst  spare  his  life  f    Blessings  shower  on  thee, 
As  many  as  the  drops  twice  counted  o'er 
In  the  fond  faithful  heart  of  his  Teresa ! 

Alv.  I  can  endure  no  more.    The  Moorish  Sorcerer 
Exists  but  in  the  stain  upon  this  face. 
That  picture — 

Te, •-.  (advances  towards  him.)  Ha!  speak  on! 

Alv.  Beloved  Teresa! 

It  told  but  half  the  truth.    O  let  this  portrait 
Tell  all— that  Alvar  lives— that  he  is  here ! 
Thy  much-deceived  but  ever-faithful  Alvar. 

[Takes  her  portrait  from  his  neck,  and  gives  it  her. 

Ter.  (receiving  the  portrait.)   The  same — it  is  the  same. 

Ah !     Who  art  thou  ? 
Nay  I  will  not  call  thee,  ALVAR!          [She  falls  on  his  neck. 

Alv.  O  joy  unutterable! 

But  hark !  a  sound  as  of  removing  bars 
At  the  dungeon's  outer  door.    A  brief,  brief  while 
Conceal  thyself,  my  love !     It  is  Ordonio. 
For  the  honour  of  our  race,  for  our  dear  father ; 
O  for  himself  too  (he  is  still  my  brother) 
Let  me  recall  him  to  his  nobler  nature, 
That  he  may  wake  as  from  a  dream  of  murder ! 
O  let  me  reconcile  him  to  himself, 
Open  the  sacred  source  of  penitent  tears, 
And  be  once  more  his  own  beloved  Alvar. 

Ter.  O  my  all-virtuous  Love !    I  fear  to  leave  thee 
With  that  obdurate  man. 

Alv.  Thou  dost  not  leave  me ! 

But  a  brief  while  retire  into  the  darkness : 
O  that  my  joy  could  spread  its  sunshinr  round  thee! 


REMORSE.  231 

Ter.  The  sonnd  of  thy  voice  shall  be  my  music ! 

[Jtetiring,  she  returns  hastily  and  embracing  ALVAR. 
Alyar !  my  Alvar !  am  I  sure  I  hold  thee  ? 
Is  it  no  dream  ?  thee  in  my  arms,  my  Alvar !  [Exit. 

\_A  noise  at  the  Dungeon  door.  It  opens,  and  ORDONIO 
enters,  with  a  goblet  in  his  hand. 

Ord.  Hail,  potent  wizard !  in  my  gayer  mood 
I  poured  forth  a  libation  to  old  Pluto, 
And  as  I  brimmed  the  bowl,  I  thought  on  thee. 
Thou  hast  conspired  against  my  life  and  honour, 
Hast  tricked  me  foully;  yet  I  hate  thee  not. 
Why  should  I  hate  thee?  this  same  world  of  ours, 
'Tis  but  a  pool  amid  a  storm  of  rain, 
And  we  the  air-bladders  that  course  up  and  down, 
And  joust  and  tilt  in  merry  tournament; 
And  when  one  bubble  runs  foul  of  another, 

[  Waving  his  hand  to  ALVAR. 
The  weaker  needs  must  break. 

Alv.  I  see  thy  heart ! 

There  is  a  frightful  glitter  in  thine  eye, 
Which  doth  betray  theo.     Inly-tortured  man, 
This  is  the  revelry  of  a  drunken  anguish, 
Which  fain  would  scoff  away  the  pang  of  guilt, 
And  quell  each  human  feeling. 

Ord.  Feeling !  feeling  ! 

The  death  of  a  man — the  breaking  of  a  bubble — 
'Tis  true  I  cannot  sob  for  such  misfortunes  ; 
But  faintuess,  cold  and  hunger— curses  on  me 
If  willingly  I  e'er  inflicted  them  ! 
Come,  take  the  beverage  ;   this  chill  place  demands  it. 

[ORDONio  proffers  the  goblet. 

Ah.  Yon  insect  on  the  wall, 

Which  moves  this  way  and  that,  its  hundred  limbs, 
Were  ifc  a  toy  of  mere  mechanic  craft, 
It  were  an  infinitely  curious  thing  ! 
But  it  has  life,  Ordonio !  life,  enjoyment ! 
And  by  the  power  of  its  miraculous  will 
Wields  all  the  complex  movements  of  its  frame 
Unerringly  to  pleasurable  ends  1 
Saw  I  that  insect  on  this  goblet's  brim 
I  would  remove  it  with  an  anxious  pity ! 

Ord.  What  meanest  thou  ? 

Alv.  There's  poison  in  the  wine. 

Ord.  Thou  hast  guessed  right ,  there's  poison  in  the  wine. 
There's  poison  in't — which  of  us  two  shall  drink  it  ? 
For  one  of  us  must  die ! 

Alv.  Whom  dost  thou  think  me? 

Ord.  The  accomplice  and  sworn  friend  of  Isidore. 

Alv.  I  know  him  not. 

And  yet,  methinks,  I  have  heard  the  name  but  lately. 
Means  he  the  husband  of  the  Moorish  woman  ? 
Isidore  ?  Isidore  ? 


232  REMC-RSE. 

Ord.  Good !  good !  that  Lie !  by  heaven  it  lias  restored  me. 
Now  I  am  thy  master ! — Villain!  thou  shalt  drink  it, 
Or  die  a  bitterer  death. 

Alv.  What  strange  solution 

Hast  thon  found  out  to  satisfy  thy  fears, 
And  drug  them  to  unnatural  sleep  ? 

[ALVAR  takes  the  goblet,  and  throwing  it  to  the  ground 
with  stern  contempt. 

My  master ! 

Ord.  Thou  mountebank ! 

Alv.                                         Mountebank  find  villain ! 
"What  then  art  thou?    For  shame,  put  up  thy  sword! 
What  boots  a  weapon  in  a  withered  arm  ? 
I  fix  mine  eye  upon  thee,  and  thou  tremblest! 
I  speak,  and  feir  and  wonder  crush  thy  rage, 
And  turn  it  to  a  motionless  distraction"! 
Thou  blind  self- worshipper !   thy  pride,  thy  cunning, 
Thy  faith  in  universal  villany. 
Thy  shallow  sophisms,  thy  pretended  scorn 
For  all  thy  human  brethren — out  upon  them  !          [peace  I 
What    have    they  done  for  thee  ?   have  they  given  thee 
Cured  thee  of  starting  in  thy  sleep  ?  or  made 
The  darkness  pleasant  when  thou  wak'st  at  midnight  ? 
Art  happy  when  alone  ?  Can'st  walk  by  thyself 
With  even  step  and  quiet  cheerfulness  ? 
Yet,  yet  thou  may'st  be  saved 

Ord.  (vacantly  repeating  the  ivords.)  Saved  I  saved? 

Alv.  One  pang  I 

Could  I  call  up  one  pang  of  true  Eemorse ! 

Ord.  He  told  me  of  the  babes  that  prattled  to  him, 
His  fatherless  little  ones!  Remorse!  Remorse! 
WThere  got'st  thou  that  fool's  word  ?  Curse  on  Remorse ! 
Can  it  give  up  the  dead,  or  recompact 
A  mangled  body  ?  mangled — dashed  to  atoms  ! 
Not  all  the  blessings  of  an  host  of  angels 
Can  blow  away  a  desolate  widow's  curse  ! 
And  though  thou  spill  thy  heart's  blood  for  atonement, 
It  will  not  weigh  against  an  orphan's  tear  ? 

Alv.  (almost  overcome  by  his  feelings.)  But  Alvar 

Ord.  Ha!  it  choaks  thee  ••  r.the  throat, 

Even  thee  ;  and  yet  I  pray  thee  speak  it  out — 
Still  Alvar! — Alvar!— howl  it  in  mine  ear! 
Heap  it  like  coals  of  fire  upon  my  heart, 
And  shoot  it  hissing  through  my  brain! 

Alv.  Alas! 

That  day  when  thou  didst  leap  from  off  the  rock 
Into  the  waves,  and  grasped  thy  sinking  brother, 
And  bore  him  to  the  strand ;  then,  sou  of  Valdez, 
How  sweet  and  musical  the  name  of  Alvar! 
Then,  then,  Ordonio,  he  was  dear  to  thee, 
And  thou  wert  dear  to  him  :  heaven  only  knows 
How  very  dear  thou  wert !  Why  did'st  thou  hate  him  ? 


REMORSE.  233 

0  heaven !  Low  he  •would  fall  upon  thy  neck, 
And  weep  forgiveness ! 

Old.  Spirit  of  the  dead ! 

Methiuks  I  know  thee  !  ha  !  my  brain  turns  wild 
At  its  own  dreams  ! — oft* — off — fantastic  shadow ! 

Air.  I  fain  would  tell  thee  what  I  am  ?  hut  dare  no!  ! 

Ord.  Cheat!  \illain!  traitor!  whatsoever  thou  be — 

1  fear  thee,  Man  ! 

Ter.  (rushing  out  and  falling  on  ALVAR' s  nccJc.)  Ordonio! 
'tis  thy  Brother. , 

[ORDONio  with  frantic  wildness  runs  upon  ALVAR 
with  his  sword.  TERESA  flings  herself  on  ORDO- 
NIO and  arrests  his  arm. 

Stop,' madman,  stop! 

Alv.  Does  then  this  thin  disguise  impenetrably 
Hide  Alvar  from  thee?  Toil  and  painful  wounds 
And  long  imprisonment  in  unwholesome  dungeons, 
Have  marred  perhaps  all  trait  and  lineament 
Of  what  I  was !  But  chiefly,  chiefly,  brother, 
My  anguish  for  thy  guilt ! 

Ordonio — Brother ! 
Nay,  nay,  thou  shalt  embrace  me. 

Ord.  (drawing  back,  and  gazing  at  ALVAR  ivith  a  counte- 
nance of  at  once  awe  and  terror.)  Touch  me  not ! 
Touch  not  pollution,  Alvar!  I  will  die. 

[He  attempts  to  fall  on  his  sword,  ALVAR  and  TERESA 

prevent  him. 

Alv.  We  will  find  means  to  save  your  honour.    Live. 
Oh  live,  Ordooin !  for  our  father's  sake ! 
Spare  his  grey  hairs  ! 

Ter.  And  you  may  yet  be  happy. 

Ord.-  O  horror !  not  a  thousand  years  in  heaven 
Could  recompose  this  miserable  heart, 
Or  make  it  capable  of  one  brief  joy  ! 
Live!  Live  !  Why  yes  !  'Twere  well  to  live  with  you: 
For  is  it  fit  a  villain  should  be  proud  1 
My  Brother !  I  will  kneel  to  you,  my  Brother  !     [Kneeling. 

Forgive  me,  Alvar ! Curse  mo  with  forgiveness ! 

Alv.  Call  back  thy  soul,  Ordonio,  and  look  round  thee! 
Now  is  the  time  for  greatness !  Think  that  heaven — 
Ter.  O  mark  his  eye  !  he  hears  not  what  you  say. 
Ord.  (pointing  at  the  vacancy.}    Yes,  mark  his  ^ye  !  there's 

fascination  in  it! 

Thou  saidst  thou  didst  not  know  him — That  is  he ! 
He  comes  upon  me ! 

Alv.  Heal,  O  heal  him  heaven  ! 

Ord.  Nearer  and  nearer !  and  I  cannot  stir  ! 
Will  no  one  hear  these  stifled  groans,  and  wake  me  ? 
He  would  have  died  to  save  me,  and  I  killed  him — 
A  husband  and  a  father ! — 

Ter.  Some  secret  poison 

Drinks  up  his  spirits  ! 


234  REMORSE. 

Ord.  (fiercely  recollecting  himself.)  Let  the  Eternal  Justice 
Prepare  my  punishment  in  the  ohscure  world — 
I  will  not  bear  to  live — to  live — O  agony! 
And  be  myself  alone  my  own  sore  torment ! 

[The  doors  of  the  dungeon  are  broken  open,  and  in  rush 
ALHADRA,  and  the  band  of  Morescoes. 

Alh.  Seize  first  that  man ! 

[ALVAR  presses  onward  to  defend  ORDONIO. 

Ord.  Off,  Ruffians !  I  have  flung  away  my  sword. 
Woman,  my  life  is  thine !  to  thee  I -give  it ! 
Off!  he  that  touches  me  with  his  hand  of  flesh, 
I'll  rend  his  limbs  asunder  !  I  have  strength 
With  this  bare  arm  to  scatter  you  like  ashes. 

Alii.  My  husband — 

Ord.  Yes,  I  murdered  him  most  foully. 

Air.  and  Ter.  O  horrible  ! 

Alh.  Why  didst  thou  leave  his  children  f 

Demon,  thou  should'st  have  sent  thy  dogs  of  hell 
To  lap  their  blood.    Then,  then  I  might  have  hardened 
My  soul  in  misery,  and  have  had  comfort. 
I  would  have  stood  far  off,  quiet  though  dark, 
And  bade  the  race  of  men  raise  up  a  mourning 
For  a  deep  horror  of  a  desolation, 
Too  great  to  be  one's  soul's  particular  lot ! 
Brother  of  Zagri !  let  me  lean  upon  thee. 

[Struggling  to  suppress  her  feelings. 
The  time  is  not  yet  come  for  woman's  anguish, 
I  have  not  seen  his  blood — Within  an  hour 
Those  little  ones  will  crowd  around  and  ask  me, 
Where  is  our  father  ?   I  shall  curse  thee  then ! 
Wert  thou  in  heaven,  my  curse  would  pluck  thee  thence  ! 

Tcr.  lie  doth  repent!  See,  see,  I  kneel  to  thee! 

0  let  him  live !  That  aged  man,  his  father 

Alh.  (sternly)  Why  had  he  such  a  son  ? 

[Shouts  from  the  distance  of  "  Rescue  !   Rescue  !    AL- 
VAR! ALVAR!"  and  the  voice  of  VALDEZ  heard. 
Alh.  Rescue  ?— And  Isidore's  Spirit  unavenged  ? 
The  deed  be  mine !  [Suddenly  stabs  ORDONIO. 

Now  take  my  Life ! 

Ord.  (staggering  from  the  wound.)  ATONEMENT! 

Alv.  (while  with.  TERESA  supporting  ORDONIO.)    Arm  of 

avenging  Heaven, 

Thou  hast  snatched  from  me  my  most  cherished  hope — 
But  go !  my  word  was  pledged  to  thee. 

Ord.  Away ! 

Brave  not  my  Father's  Rage  !  I  thank  thee !    Thou — 

[Then  turning  his  eyes  languidly  to  ALV  AH. 
She  hath  avenged  the  blood  of  Isidore ! 

1  stood  in  silence  like  a  slave  before  her 

That  I  might  taste  the  wormwood  and  the  gall, 

And  satiate  this  self-accusing  heart 

With  bitterer  agonies  than  death  can  give. 


REMORSE.  235 

Forgive  me,  Alvar! 

Ob  ! — could'st  thou  forget  me !  [Dies. 
[ALVAR  and  TERESA  bend  over  the  body  O/ORDONIO. 

Alh.  (to  the  Moors.)  I  thank  thee,  Heaven !  thou  hast  or- 
dained it  wisely, 

That  still  extremes  bring  their  own  cure.     That  point 
In  misery,  which  makes  the  oppressed  Man 
Regardless  of  his  own  life,  makes  him  too 
Lord  of  the  Oppressor's — Knew  I  an  hundred  men 
Despairing,  but  not  palsied  by  despair, 
This  arm  should  shake  the  Kingdoms  of  the  World ; 
The  deep  foundations  of  iniquity 

Should  sink  away,  earth  groaning  from  beneath  them; 
The  strongholds  of  the  cruel  men  should  fall, 
Their  Temples  and  their  mountainous  Towers  should  fall ; 
Till  Desolation  seemed  a  beautiful  thing, 
And  all  that  were  and  had  the  Spirit  of  Life, 
Sang  a  new  song  to  her  who  had  gone  forth, 
Conquering  and  still  to  conquer ! 

[ALHADRA  hurries  off  with  the  Moors;  the  stage  fills  ivilh 
armed  peasants  and  servants,  ZULIMEZ  and  VA.LDKZ 
at  their  head.  VALDEZ  rushes  into  ALVAR'S  arms. 

Alv.  Turn  not  thy  face  that  way,  my  father!  hide, 
Oh  hide  it  from  his  eye !  Oh  let  thy  joy 
Flow  in  unmingled  stream  through  thy  first  blessing. 

[Both  kneel  to  VALDEZ. 

Vol.  My  son  !  My  Alvar !  bless,  Oh  bless  him,  heaven! 

Ter.  Me  too,  my  Father  ? 

VaL  Bless,  Oh  bless  my  children !  [Both  rise. 

Alv.  Delights  so  full,  if  unalloyed  with  grief, 
Were  ominous.     In  these  strange  dread  events 
Just  Heaven  instructs  us  with  an  awful  voice, 
That  Conscience  rules  us  e'en  against  our  choice. 
Our  inward  Monitress  to  guide  or  warn, 
If  listened  to  ;  but  if  repelled  with  scorn, 
At  length  as  dire  REMORSE,  she  reappears, 
Works  incur  guilty  hopes,  and  selfish  fears  ! 
Still  bids,  Remember  !  and  still  cries,  Too  late  ! 
And  while  she  scares  us,  goads  us  to  our  fate. 


APPENDIX. 


THE  following  Scene,  as  unfit  for  the  Stage,  was  taken  from  the 
Tragedy,  in  the  year  1797,  and  published  in  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  But 
this  work  having  been  long  out  of  print,  and  it  having  been  deter- 
mined, that  this  with  my  other  Poems  in  that  collection  (the  NIGHT- 
INGALE, LOVE,  and  the  ANCIENT  MARINER)  should  be  omitted  in  any 
future  edition,  I  have  been  advised  to  reprint  it,  as  a  Note  to  the 
second  Scene  of  Act  the  Fourth,  p.  221. 


236  REMORSE. 


Enter  TERESA  and  SELMA. 

Teresa.  'Tis  said,  he  spake  of  you  familiarly, 
As  mine  and  Alvar's  common  fost*>r-m  -ther. 

Selma.  Now  blessings  on  the  man,  whoe'er  he  be. 
That  joined  „  our  names  with  mine !    O  my  sweet  Lady, 
As  often  as  I  think  of  those  dear  times, 
When  you  two  little  ones  would  stand,  at  eve, 
On  each  side  of  my  chair,  and  make  me  learn 
All  you  had  learnt  in  the  day:  and  how  to  talk 

In  gentle  phrase;  then  bid  me  sing  to  you 

'Tis  more  like  heaven  to  come,  than  what  has  been ! 

Teresa.  But  that  entrance,  Selma? 

Selma.  Can  no  one  hear?    It  is  a  perilous  tale. 

Teresa.  No  one. 

Selma.  My  husband's  father  told,  it  me, 

Poor  old  Sesina — angels  rest  his  soul; 
He  was  a  woodman,  and  could  fell  and  saw 
With  lusty  arm.    You  know  that  huge  round  beam 
Which  props  the  hanging  wall  of  the  old  Chapel" 
Beneath  that  tree,  while  yet  it  was  a  tree, 
He  found  a  baby  wrapt  in  mosses,  lined 
With  thistle-beards,  and  such  small  locks  of  wool 
As  hang  on  brambles.    Well,  he  brought  him  home, 
And  reared  him  at  the  then  Lord  Valdez'  cost. 
And  so  the  babe  grew  up  a  pretty  boy, 
A  pretty  boy,  but  most  unteachable — 
And  never  learnt  a  prayer,  nor  told  a  bead, 
But  knew  the  names  of  birds,  and  mocked  their  notes, 
And  whistled,  as  he  were  a  bird  himself: 
And  all  the  autumn  'twas  his  only  play 
To  gather  seeds  of  wild-flowers,  ana  to  plant  them 
With  earth  and  water  on  the  stumps  of  trees. 
A  Friar,  who  gathered  simples  in  the  wood, 
A  grey-haired  man,  he  loved  this  little  boy: 
The  boy  loved  him,  and,  when  the  friar  taught  him, 
He  soon  could  write  with  the  pen:  and  from  that  time 
Lived  chiefly  at  the  Convent  or  the  Castle. 
So  he  became  a  rare  and  learned  j-outh: 
But  O!  poor  wretch!  he  read,  and  read,  and  read, 
Till  his  brain  turned;  and  ere  his  twentieth  year 
He  had  unlawful  thoughts  of  many  things: 
And  though  he  prayed,  he  never  loved  to  pray 
With  holy  men,  nor  in  a  holy  place. 
But  ye'  his  speech,  it  was  so  soft  and  sweet, 
The  late  Lord  Valdt-z  ne'er  was  wearied  with  him. 
And  once,  as  by  the  north  side  of  the  chapel 
They  stood  together,  chained  in  deep  discourse, 
The  earth  heaved  under  them  with  such  a  groan, 
That  the  wall  tottered)  and  had  well  nigh  fallen 
Right  on  their  heads.    My  Lord  was  sorely  frightened; 
A  fever  seized  him,  and  he  made  confession 
Of  all  the  heretical  and  lawless  talk 
Which  brought  this  -judgment:  so  the  youth  was  seized, 
And  cast  into  that  hole.     My  husband's  fai  her 
Sobbed  like  a  child— it  almost  brokt>  his  heart: 
And  once  as  he  was  working  near  this  dungeon, 
He  heard  a  voice  distinctly,  'twas  the  youth's, 
Who  sung  a  doleful  song  about  green  fields. 
How  sweet,  it  were  on  lake  or  wide  savannah 
To  hunt  for  food,  and  be  a  naked  man, 
And  wander  up  and  down  at  liberty.    , 
He  always  doted  on  the  youth,  and  now 
His  love  grew  desperate;  and  defying  death, 
He  made  that  cunning  entrance  I  described, 
And  the  young  man  escaped. 


REMORSE.  237 

Teresa.  Tis  a  sweet  tale : 

Such  as  would  lull  a  listening  child  to  sleep, 
His  rosy  face  besoiled  with  unwiped  tears. 
And  what  became  of  him  ? 

Selma.  He  went  on  shipboard 

With  those  bold  voyagers  who  made  discovery 
Of  golden  lands.    Sesina's  younger  brother 
Went  likewise,  and  when  he  returned  to  Spain, 
He  told  Sesina,  that  the  poor  mad  youth, 
Soon  after  they  arrived  in  that  new  world, 
In  spite  of  his  disuasion,  seized  a  boat, 
And  all  alone  set  sail  by  silent  moonlight 
Up  a  great  river,  great  as  any  sea. 
And  ne'er  was  heard  of  more:  but  'tis  supposed,     . 
He  lived  and  died  among  the  savage  men. 


Not3  to  the  words  "  you  are  a  painter,"  p.  207,  Scene  II.,  Act  II. 

The  following  lines  I  have  preserved  in  this  place,  not  so  much  as 
explanatory  of  the  picture  of  the  assassination,  as  (if  I  may  say  so 
without  disrespect  to  the  Public)  to  gratify  my  own  feelings,  the 
passage  being  no  mere  fancy  portrait;  but  a  slight,  yet  not  unfaith- 
ful, profile  of  one,*  who  still  lives,  nobilitate  felix,  arte  clarior,  vita 
colendissimus. 

Zulimez  (speaking  of  ALVAR  in  the  third  person). 
Such  was  the  noble  Spaniard's  own  relation. 
He  told  me,  too,  how  in  his  early  youth, 
And  his  first  travels,  'twas  his  choice  or  chance 
To  make  long  sojourn  in  eea- wedded  Venice; 
There  won  th*  love  of  that  divine  old  man, 
Courted  by  mightiest  kings,  the  famous  TITIAN! 
Who,  like  a  second  and  more  lovely  Nature, 
By  the  Sweet  mystery  of  lines  and  colours 
Changed  the  blank  canvass  to  a  magic  mirror, 
That  made  the  Absent  present;  and  to  Shadows 
Gave  light,  depth,  substance,  bloom,  yea,  thought  and  motion. 
He  loved  the  old  man,  and  revered  his  art: 
And  though  of  noblest  birth  and  ample  fortune, 
The  young  enthusiast  thought  it  no  scorn 
But  this  inalienable  ornament. 
To  be  his  pupil,  and  with  filial  zeal 
By  practice  to  appropriate  the  sage  lessons, 
Which  the  gay,  smiling  old  man  gladly  gave. 
The  Art,  he  honoured  thus,  requited  him: 
And  in  the  following  and  calamitous  years 
Beguiled  the  hours  of  his  captivity. 

Alhadra.  And  then  he  framed  this  picture?  and  unaided. 
By  arts  unlawful,  spell,  or  talisman? 

Alvar.  A  potent  spell,  a  mighty  talisman! 
The  imperishable  memory  of  the  deed, 
Sustained  by  love,  and  grief  v  and  indignation ! 
So  vivid  were  the  forms  within  his  brain, 
His  very  eyes,  when  shut,  made  pictures  of  them  I 

*  Sir  George  Beaumont.    [Written  1814.] 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 

AN  HISTORIC  DRAMA. 


H.  MARTIN,  ESQ., 

OF  JESUS  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE. 

DEAR  SIR,— Accept,  as  a  small  testimony  of  my  grateful  attach- 
ment, the  following  Dramatic  Poem,  in  which  I  have  endeavoured 
to  detail,  in  an  interesting  form,  the  fall  of  a  man  whose  great  bad 
actions  have  cast  a  disastrous  lustre  on  his  name.  In  the  execution 
of  the  work,  as  intricacy  of  plot  could  not  have  been  attempted 
without  a  gross  violation  of  recent  facts,  it  has  been  my  sole  aim 
to  imitate  the  impassioned  and  highly  figurative  language  of  the 
French  orators,  and  to  develop  the  characters  of  the  chief  actors 
on  a  vast  stage  of  horrors. 

Yours  fraternally, 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

JESUS  COLLEGE,  Sept.  22,  1794. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE. — The  Tuilleries. 
Enter  BARRERE. 

Ear.  The  tempest  gathers — be  it  mine  to  seek 
A  friendly  shelter,  ere  ifc  bursts  upon  him. 
But  where  ?  and  how  f  I  fear  the  Tyrant's  soul — 
Sudden  in  action,  fertile  in  resource, 
And  rising  awful  'mid  impending  ruins  ; 
In  splendour  gloomy,  as  the  midnight  meteor, 
That  fearless  thwarts  the  elemental  war. 
When  last  in  secret  conference  we  met, 
He  scowl'd  upon  me  with  suspicions  rage, 
Making  his  eye  the  inmate  of  my  bosom. 
I  know  he  scorns  me — and  I  feel,  I  hate  him — 
Yet  there  is  in  him  that  which  makes  me  tremble !     [Exit. 

Enter  TALLIEN  and  LEGENDRE. 

Tal.  It  was  Barrere,  Legendre !  didst  thou  mark  him  1 
Abrupt  he  turn'd,  yet  lingered  as  he  went, 
And  towards  us  cast  a  look  of  doubtful  meaning. 

Leg.  I  mark'd  him  well.    I  met  his  eye's  last  glance ; 
It  menac'd  not  so  proudly  as  of  yore. 

Methought  he  would  have  spoke     but  that  he  dar'd  not — 
Such  agitation  darkeu'd  on  his  brow. 

Tal.  'Twas  all-distrusting  guilt  that  kept  from  bursting 
The  imprison'd  secret  struggling  in  the  face  : 
E'en  as  the  sudden  breeze  upstarting  onwards 
Hurries  the  thunder-cloud,  that  poised  awhile 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  239 

Hung  in  mid  air,  red  with  its  mutinous  burthen. 

Leg.  Perfidious  Traitor! — still  afraid  to  bask 
In  the  full  blaze  of  power,  the  rustling  serpent 
Lurks  in  the  thicket  of  the  Tyrant's  greatness, 
Ever  prepar'd  to  sting  who  shelters  him. 
Each  thought,  each  action  in  himself  converges  j 
And  love  and  friendship  on  his  coward  heart 
Shine  like  the  powerless  sun  on  polar  ice : 
To  all  attach'd,  by  turns  deserting  all, 
Cunning  and  dark — a  necessary  villian ! 

Tal.  Yst  much  depends  upon  him — well  you  know 
With  plausible  harangue  'tis  his  to  paint 
Defeat  like  victory — and  blind  the  mob 
With  truth-mix' d  falsehood.    They  led  on  by  him, 
And  wild  of  head  to  work  their  own  destruction, 
Support  with  uproar  what  he  plans  in  darkness. 

Leg.  O  what  a  precious  name  is  Liberty 
To  scare  or  cheat  the  simple  into  slaves ! 
Yes — we  must  gain  him  over:  by  dark  hints 
We'll  show  enough  to  rouse  his  watchful  fears, 
Till  the  cold  coward  blaze  a  patriot. 
O  Danton !  murder' d  friend !  assist  my  counsels — 
Hover  around  me  on  sad  memory's  wings, 
And  pour  thy  daring  vengeance  in  my  heart. 
Tallien !  if  but  to-morrow's  fateful  sun 
Beholds  the  Tyrant  living — we  are  dead ! 

Tal.  Yet  his  keen  eye  that  flashes  mighty  meanings — 

Leg.  Fear  not — or  rather  fear  the  alternative, 
And  seek  for  courage  e'en  in  cowardice — 
But  see — hither  he  comes — let  us  away ! 
His  brother  with  him,  and  the  bloody  Couthon, 
And  high  of  haughty  spirit,  young  St.  Just.  \Exe\int. 

Enter  ROBESPIERRE,  COUTHON,    ST.   JUST,    and  ROBES- 
PIERRE, Jun. 

Mob.  What  ?  did  La  Fayette  fall  before  my  power  ? 
And  did  I  conquer  Roland's  spotless  virtues  ? 
The  fervent  eloquence  of  Vergniaud's  tongue  ? 
And  Brissot's  thoughtful  soul  unbribed  and  bold  ? 
Did  zealot  armies  haste  in  vain  to  save  them  ? 
What !  did  the  assassin's  dagger  aim  its  point? 
Vain  as  a  dream  of  murder,  at  my  bosom  ? 
And  shall  I  dread  the  soft  luxurious  Tallien  ? 
The  Adonis  Tallien  ?  banquet-hunting  Tallien  ? 
Him,  whose  heart  flutters  at  the  dice-box?    Him, 
Who  ever  on  the  harlot's  downy  pillow 
Resigns  his  head  impure  to  feverish  slumbers ! 

St.  Just.  I  cannot  fear  him — yet  we  must  not  scorn  him. 
Was  it  not  Antony  that  conquer'd  Brutus, 
The  Adonis,  banquet-hunting  Antony  ? 
The  state  is  not  yet  purified :  and  though 
The  stream  runs  clear,  yet  at  the  bottom  lies 


240 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 


The  thick  black  sediment  of  all  the  factions — 
It  needs  no  magic  hand  to  stir  it  up  ! 

COM.  O  we  did  wrong  to  spare  them — fatal  error ! 
Why  lived  Legeudre,  when  that  Danton  died  ? 
And  Collot  d'Herbois  dangerous  in  crimes  ? 
I've  fear'd  him,  since  his  iron  heart  endured 
To  make  of  Lyons  one  vast  human  shambles, 
Compar'd  with  which  the  sun-scorch'd  wilderness 
Of  Zara  were  a  smiling  paradise. 

St.  Just.  Rightly  thou  judgest,  Couthon!    He  is  one 
Who  flies  from  silent  solitary  anguish, 
Seeking  forgetful  peace  amid  the  jar 
Of  elements.    The  bowl  of  maniac  uproar 
Lulls  to  sad  sleep  the  memory  of  himself. 
A  calm  is  fatal  to  him — then  he  feels 
The  dire  upboilings  of  the  storm  within  him. 
A  tiger  mad  with  inward  wounds ! — I  dread 
The  fierce  and  restless  turbulence  of  guilt. 

Bob.  Is  not  the  commune  ours  f  the  stern  tribunal  ? 
Dumas  ?  and  Vivier  ?    Fleuriot  ?  and  Louvet  f 
And  Henriot  f    We'll  denounce  a  hundred,  nor 
Shall  they  behold  to-morrow's  uun  roll  westward. 

Eob.  jun.  Nay — I  am  sick  of  blood ;  my  aching  heart 
Reviews  the  long,  long  train  of  hideous  horrors 
That  still  have  gloom'd  the  rise  of  the  republic. 
I  should  have  died  before  Toulon,  when  war 
Became  the  patriot ! 

Bob.  Most  unworthy  wish ! 

He,  whose  heart  sickens  at  the  blood  of  traitors 
Would  be  himself  a  traitor,  were  he  not 
A  coward !    ;Tis  congenial  souls  alone 
Shed  tears  of  sorrow  for  each  other's  fate. 
O  thou  art  brave,  my  brother!  and  thine  eye 
Full  firmly  shines  amid  the  groaning  battle — 
Yet  in  thine  heart  the  woman-form  of  pity 
Asserts  too  large  a  share,  an  ill-timed  guest ! 
There  is  unsoundness  in  the  state — To-morrow 
Shall  see  it  cleansed  by  wholesome  massacre! 

Bob.  jun.  Beware!  already  do  the  sections  murmur — 
"  O  the  great  glorious  patriot,  Robespierre — 
The  tyrant  guardian  of  the  country 's  freedom  !" 

Con.  'Twere  folly  sure  to  work  great  deeds  by  halves  I 
Much  I  suspect  the  darksome  fickle  heart 
Of  cold  Barrere ! 

Bob.  I  see  the  villain  in  him ! 

Bob.  jun.  If  he — if  all  forsake  thee — what  remains  ? 

Bob.  Myself!  the  steel-strong  Rectitude  of  soul 
And  Poverty  sublime  ''mid  circling  virtues ! 
The  giant  Victories,  my  counsels  form'd, 
Shall  stalk  around  me  with  sun-glittering  plumes, 
Bidding  the  darts  of  calumny  fall  pointless. 

[Exeunt  cceteri.        Manet  CoUTHQN. 


And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud. 

The  Ancient  Mariner,  page 


COLERIO     E. 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  241 

Con.  (solus.)    So  we  deceive  ourselves!    What  goodly 

virtues 

Bloom  on  the  poisonous  branches  of  ambition ! 
Still,  Robespierre !  thou'lt  guard  thy  country's  freedom 
To  despotize  in  all  the  patriot's  pomp ; 
While  Conscience  'mid  the  mob's  applauding  clamours, 
Sleeps  in  thine  ear,  nor  whispers — blood-stain'd  tyrant ! 
Yet  what  is  Conscience  ?     Superstition's  dream, 
Making  such  deep  impression  on  our  sleep 
That  long  the  awaken'd  breast  retains  its  horrors!        [ON. 
But  he  returns— and  with  him  conies 

Enter  ROBESPIERRE  and 

Rob.  There  is  no  danger  but  in  cowl 
Barrere  !  we  make  the  danger,  when 
We  have  such  force  without,  as  will  suspend 
The  cold  and  trembling  treachery  of  these  members. 

Bar.  'Twill  be  a  pause  of  terror, — 

Hob.  But  to  whom  ? 

Rather  the  short-lived  slumber  of  the  tempest, 
Gathering  its  strength  anew.     The  dastard  traitors ! 
Moles,  that  would  undermine  the  rooted  oak  ! 
A  pause ! — a  moment's  pause  ? — "Tis  all  their  life. 

Bar.  Yet  much  they  talk — and  plausible  their  speech. 
Couthon's  decree  has  given  such  powers,  that 

Mob.  That  what  ? 

Bar.  The  freedom  of  debate — 

Hob.  Transparent  mark ! 

The  wish  to  clog  the  wheels  of  government, 
Forcing  the  hand  that  guides  the  vast  machine 
To  bribe  them  to  their  duty — English  patriots, 
Are  not  the  congregated  clouds  of  war 
Black  all  around  us  ?    In  our  very  vitals 
Works  not  the  king-bred  poison  of  rebellion? 
Say,  what  shall  counteract  the  selfish  plottings 
Of  wretches,  cold  of  heart,  nor  awed  by  fears 
Of  him,  whose  power  directs  the  eternal  justice? 
Terror?  or  secret  sapping  gold  ?  The  first 
Heavy,  but  transient  as'the  ills  that  cause  it; 
Aud  to  the  virtuous  patriot  rendered  light 
By  the  necessities  that  gave  it  birth  : 
The  other  fouls  the  fount  of  the  republic, 
Making  it  flow  polluted  to  all  ages : 
Inoculates  the  state  with  a  slow  venom, 
That  once  imbibed,  must  be  continued  ever. 
Myself  incorruptible  I  ne'er  could  bribe  them — 
Therefore  they  hate  me. 

Bar.  Are  the  sections  friendly  f 

Rob.  There  are  who  wish  my  ruin— but  I'll  make  them 
Blush  for  the  crime  in  blood ! 

Bar.  Nay— but  I  tell  thee 

Thou  art  too  fond  of  slaughter— and  the  right 

E 


f 


242  THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 

(If  right  it  be)  workest  by  most  foul  means ! 

Bob.  Self-centering  Fear!  how  well  thou  canst  ape  Mercy  ! 
Too  fond  of  slaughter — matchless  hypocrite ! 
Thought  Barrere  so,  when  Brissot,  Danton,  died  ? 
Thought  Barrere  so,  when  through  the  streaming  streets 
Of  Paris  red-eyed  Massacre  o'erwearied 
Reel'd  heavily,  intoxicate  with  blood? 
And  when  (O  heavens!)  in  Lyons'  death-red  square 
Sick  fancy  groan'd  o'er  putrid  hills  of  slain, 
Didst  thou  not  fiercely  laugh,  and  bless  the  day? 
Why,  thou  hast  been  the  mouth-piece  of  all  horrors, 
And,  like  a  blood-hound,  crouclrd  for  murder !   Now 
Aloof  thou  standest  from  the  tottering  pillar, 
Or,  like  a  frighted  child  behind  its  mother, 
Hidest  thy  pale  face  in  the  skirts  of— Mercy  ! 

Bar.  O  prodigality  of  eloquent  anger ! 
Why  now  I  see  thoii'rt  weak  -thy  case  is  desperate ! 
The  cool  ferocious  Robespierre  turn'd  scohler ! 

Hob.  Who  from  a  bad  man's  bosom  wards  the  blow 
Reserves  the  whetted  dagger  for  his  own. 
Denounced  twice — and  twice  I  saved  his  life  !  [Exit. 

Bar.  The  sections  will  support  then — there's  the  point ! 
No  !  he  can  never  weather  out  the  storm — 
Yet  he  is  sudden  in  revenge — No  more  ! 
I  must  away  to  Tallien.  [Exit. 

Scene  changes  to  the  house  of  ADELAIDE. 
ADELAIDE  enters,  speaking  to  a  Servant. 

Ade.  Didst  thou  present  the  letter  that  I  gave  thee  ? 
Did  Tallieu  answer,  he  would  soon  return? 

Sen.  He  is  in  the  Tuilleries— with  him  Legendre — 
In  deep  discourse  they  seem'd :  as  I  approach'd 
He  waved  his  hand  as  bidding  me  retire  : 
I  did  not  interrupt  Rim.  [Returns  the  letter. 

Ade.  Thou  didst  rightly.   [Exit  Servant. 

O  this  new  freedom !   at  how  dear  a  price 
We've  bought  the  seeming  good !     The  peaceful  virtues 
And  every  blandishment  of  private  life, 
The  father's  cares,  the  mother's  fond  endearment, 
All  sacrificed  to  liberty's  wild  riot. 
The  winged  hours,  that  scatter'd  roses  round  me, 
Languid  and  sad  drag  their  slow  course  along, 
And  shake  big  gall-drops  from  their  heavy  wings. 
But  I  will  steal  away  these  anxious  thoughts 
By  the  soft  lauguishment  of  warbled  airs, 
If  haply  melodies  may  lull  the  sense 
Of  sorrow  for  awhile. 

Soft  Music.    Enter  TALLIEN. 

T<d.  Music,  my  love  ?    O  breathe  again  that  air! 
Soft  nurse  of  pain,  it  soothes  the  weary  soul 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  243 

Of  care,  sweet  as  the  whisper'd  breeze  of  evening 
That  plays  around  the  sick  man's  throbbing  temples. 

SONG. 

Tell  me,  on  what  holy  ground 
May  domestic  peace  be  found? 
Halcyon  daughter  6f  the  skies, 
Far  on  fearful  wing  she  flies. 
From  the  pomp  of  scepter'd  state, 
From  the  rebel's  noisy  hate. 

In  a  cottaged  vale  she  dwells 
List'ning  to  the  Sabbath  bells! 
Still  around  her  steps  are  seen, 
Spotless  honour's  meeker  mien, 
Love,  the  fire  of  pleasing  fears, 
Sorrow  smiling  through  her  tears, 
And  conscious  of  the  past  employ, 
Memory,  bosom-spring  of  joy. 

Tal.  I  thank  thee,  Adelaide !  'twas  sweet,  though  mourn- 
ful. 

But  why  thy  brow  o'ercast,  the  cheek  so  wan  f 
Thou  lookest  a  lorn  maid  beside  some  stream 
That  sighs  away  the  soul  in  fond  despairing, 
While  sorrow  sad,  like  the  dank  willow  near  her, 
Hangs  o'er  the  troubled  fountain  of  her  eye. 

Ade.  Oh !  rather  let  me  ask  what  mystery  lowers 
On  Tallien's  darkeu'd  brow.  Thou  dost  me  wrong 
Thy  soul  distemper'd,  can  my  heart  be  tranquil  f 

Tal.  Tell  me,  by  whom  thy  brother's  blood  was  spilt  I 
Asks  he  not  vengeance  on  these  patriot  murderers  f 
It  has  been  borne  too  tamely.     Fears  and  curses 
Groan  on  our  midnight  beds,  and  e'en  our  dreams 
Threaten  the  assassin  hand  of  Robespierre. 
He  dies! — nor  has  the  plot  escaped  his  fears. 

Ade.  Yet — yet — be  cautious!  much  I  fear  the  Commune, 
The  tyrant's  creatures,  and  their  fate  with  his 
Fast  link'd  in  close  indissoluble  union. 
The  pale  Convention — 

Tal.  Hate  him  as  they  fear  him, 

Impatient  of  the  chain,  resolv'd  and  ready. 

Ade.  The  enthusiast  mob,  confusion's  lawless  sons— 

Tal   They  are  weary  of  his  stern  morality 
The  fair-mask'd  offspring  of  ferocious  pride. 
The  sections  too  support  the  delegates: 
All — all  is  ours!  e'en  now  the  vital  air 
Of  Liberty,  coudens'd  awhile,  is  bursting 
(Force  irresistible!)  from  its  compressnre — 
To  shatter  the  arch  chemist  in  the  explosion ! 

Enter  BILLAUD  VARENNES  and  BOURDON  L'OisE. 

[ADELAIDE  retires. 

Bonr.  L'Oise.  Tallien!  was  this  a  time  for  amorous  con- 
ference ? 

Henriot,  the  tyrant's  most  devoted  creature, 
Marshals  the  force  of  Paris :     The  fierce  club, 


244 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 


With  Vivier  at  their  head,  in  loud  acclaim, 
Have  sworn  to  make  the  guillotine  in  blood 
Float  on  the  scaffold — But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  BARRERE  abruptly. 

Bar.  Say,  are  ye  friends  to  freedom  ?    I  am  hers  / 
Let  us,  forgetful  of  all  common  feuds, 
Rally  airouud  her  shrine !  E'en  now  the  tyrant    . 
Concerts  a  plan  of  instant  massacre ! 

Bll.  Var.  Away  to  the  Convention !  with  that  voice 
So  oft  the  herald  of  glad  victory, 
Rouse  their  fallen  spirits,  thunder  in  their  ears 
The  names  of  tyrant,  plunderer,  assassin ! 
The  violent  workings  of  my  soul  within 
Anticipate  the  monster's  blood !  [Tyrant !" 

[Cry  from  the  street  of—  "No  Tyrant!    Down  with  the 

Tal.  Hear  ye  that  outcry  ? — If  the  trembling  members 
Even  for  a  moment  hold  his  fate  suspended, 
I  swear  by  the  holy  poniard,  that  stabbed  Caesar, 
This  dagger  probes  his  heart!  [Exeunt  omties. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE. — The  Convention. — ROBESPIERRE  mounts-the  Tribune. 

Robespierre.  Once  more  befits  it  that  the  voice  of  truth, 
Fearless  in  innocence,  though  leaguered  round 
By  envy  and  her  hateful  brood  of  hell, 
Be  heard  amid  this  hall ;  once  more  befits 
The  patriot,  whose  prophetic  eye  so  oft 
Has  pierced  through  faction's  veil,  to  flash  on  crimes 
Of  deadliest  import.    Mouldering  in  the  grave 
Sleeps  Capet's  caitiff  corse ;  my  daring  hand 
Levelled  to  earth  his  blood-cemented  throne, 
My  voice  declared  his  guilt,  and  stirred  up  France 
To  call  for  vengeance.    I  too  dug  the  grave 
Where  sleep  the  Girondists,  detested  band ! 
Long  with  the  show  of  freedom  they  abused 
Her  ardent  sons.    Long  time  the  well-turu'd  phrase, 
The  high-fraught  sentence,  and  the  lofty  tone 
Of  declamation  thunder'd  in  this  hall, 
Till  reason,  'midst  a  labyrinth  of  words 
Perplex'd,  in  silence  seem'd  to  yield  assent. 
I  durst  oppose.     Soul  of  my  honoured  friend, 
Spirit  of  Marat,  upon  thee  I  call — 

Thou  kuow'st  me  faithful,  know'st  with  what  warm  zeal 
I  urg'd  the  cause  of  justice,  stripp'd  the  mask 
From  faction's  deadly  visage,  and  destroy'd 
Her  traitor  brood.    Whose  patriot  arm  hurl'd  down 
llebert  and  Ronsiii,  and  the  villain  friends 


THE  FALL  OF  EOBESPIERRE.  245 

Of  Danton,  foul  apostate !  those,  who  long 

Mark'd  treason's  form  in  liberty's  fair  garb, 

Long  delnged  France  with  blood,  and  durst  defy 

Omnipo  ence !    But  I  it  seems  am  false ! 

I  am  a  traitor  too !  I  Robespierre ! 

I — at  whose  name  the  dastard  despot  brood 

Look  pale  with  fear,  and  call  on  saints  to  help  them! 

Wbo  dares  accuse  me  !  who  shall  dare  belie 

My  spotless  name  ?    Speak,  ye  accomplice  band ; 

Of  what  am  I  accus'd?  of  what  strange  crime 

Is  Maximilian  Robespierre  accus'd, 

That  through  this  hall  the  buz •',  of  discontent 

Should  murmur  ?  who  shall  speak  ? 

Billaud  Varennes.  O  patriot  tongue 

Belying  the  foul  heart !    Who  was  it  urg'd 
Friendly  to  tyrants  that  accurst  decree, 
Whose  influence  brooding  o'er  this  hallowed  hall, 
Has  chill'd  each  tongue  to  silence?    Who  destroyed 
The  freedom  of  debate,  and  carried  through 
The  fatal  law,  that  doom'd  the  delegates, 
Unheard  before  their  equals,  to  the  bar 
Where  cruelty  sat  throned,  and  murder  reign'd 
With  her  Dumas  co-equal  ?    Say,  thou  man 
Of  mighty  eloquence,  whoso  law  was  that  ? 

Couthon.  That  law  was  mine.     I  urged  it — I  propos'd — 
The  voice  of  France  assembled  in  her  sons 
Assented,  though  the  tame  and  timid  voice 
Of  traitors  murmur' d.     I  advis'd  that  law — 
I  justify  it.    It  was  wise  and  good. 

Barrere.  Oh,  wondrous  wise  and  most  convenient  too! 
I  have  long  mark'd  Ihee,  Robespierre — and  now 
Proclaim  thee  traitor — tyrant !  [Loud  applauses. 

Robespierre.  I  am  a  traitor!  oh,  that  I  had  fallen 
When  Regnault  lifted  high  the  murderous  knife, 
Regnault  the  instrument  belike  of  those 
Who  now  themselves  would  fain  assassinate, 
And  legalize  their  murders.     I  stand  here 
An  isolated  patriot — hemmed  around 
By  faction's  noisy  pack ;  beset  and  bay'd 
By  the  foul  hell-hounds  who  know  no  escape 
From  justice'  outstretch'd  arm,  but  by  the  force 
That  pierces  through  her  breast. 

[Murmurs,  and  shouts  of—"  Down  with  the  Tyrant !" 

Robespierre.  Nay,  but  I  will  be  heard.     There  was  a  time 
When  Robespierre  began,  the  loud  applauses 
Of  honest  patriots  drown'd  the  honest  sound. 
But  times  are  chang'd,  and  villany  prevails.       [not  brook. 

Collot  D'Herbois.    No — villany  shall  fall.     France  could 
A  monarch's  sway — sounds  the  dictator's  name 
More  soothing  to  her  ears ! 

Bourdon  VOise.  Rattle  her  chains 

More  musically  now  than  when  the  hand 


246  THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 

Of  Brissot  forged  her  fetters;  or  the  crew 
Of  H6bert  thundered  out  their  blasphemies, 
And  Daiiton  talk'd  of  virtue? 

Robespierre.  Oh,  that  Brissot 

Were  here  again  to  thunder  in  this  hall. 
That  Hdbert  lived,  and  Dauton's  giant  form 
Scowl' d  once  again  defiance !  so  my  soul 
Might  cope  with  worthy  foes. 

People  of  France 

Hear  me !    Beneath,  the  vengeance  of  the  law, 
Traitors  have  perish' d  count  less ;  more  survive  : 
The  hydra-headed  faction  lifts  anew 
Her  daring  front,  and  fruitful  from  her  wounds, 
Cautious  from  past  defeats,  contrives  new  wiles 
Against  the  sons  of  Freedom. 

Tall'ien.  Freedom  lives ! 

Oppression  falls — for  France  has  felt  her  chains. 
Has  burst  them  too.    Who  traitor-like  stept  forth 
Amid  the  hall  of  Jacobins  to  save 
Camille  Desmoulins,  and  the  venal  wretch 
D'Eglantine  ? 

Robespierre.  I  did — for  I  thought  them  honest. 
A.nd  Heaven  forfend  that  vengeance  e'er  should  strike, 
Ere  justice  doom'd  the  blow. 

Barrere.  Traitor,  thou  didst. 

Yes,  the  accomplice  of  their  dark  designs, 
Awhile  didst  thou  defend  them,  when  the  storm 
Lower'd  at  save  distance.    When  the  clouds  f row  n'd  darker, 
Fcar'd  for  yourself  and  left  them  to  their  fate. 
Oh,  I  have  mark'd  thee  long,  and  through  the  veil 
Seen  thy  foul  projects;  yes,  ambitious  man, 
Self-will' d  dictator  o'er  the  realm  of  France, 
The  vengeance  thou  hast  plann'd  for  patriots 
Falls  on  thy  head.    Look  how  thy  brother's  deeds 
Dishonour  thine !     He  the  firm  patriot, 
Thou  the  foul  parricide  of  Liberty! 

Robespierre,  jnn.  Barrere — attempt  not  meanly  to  divide 
Me  from  my  brother.     I  partake  his  guilt, 
For  I  partake  his  virtue. 

Robespierre.  Brother,  by  my  soul, 

More  dear  I  hold  thee  to  my  heart,  that  "thus 
With  me  thou  dar'st  to  tread  the  dangerous  path 
Of  virtue,  than  that  nature  twined  her  cords 
Of  kindred  round  us. 

Barrere.  Yes,  allied  in  guilt, 

Even  as  in  blood  ye  are.     Oh,  thou  worst  wretch, 
Thou  worse  than  Sylla!  hast  thou  not  proscrib'd, 
Yea,  in  most  foul  anticipation  slaughter'd, 
Each  patriot  representative  of  France! 

Bourdon  VOisc.  Was  not  the  younger  Ctesar  too  to  reign 
O'er  all  our  valiant  armies  in  the  south, 
And  still  continue  there  his  merchant  wiles  ? 


THE  FALL  OF  KOBESPIERRE.  247 

Robespierre,}**.  His  merchant  wiles!     Oh,  grant  me  pa- 
tience, Heaven! 

Was  it  by  merchant  wiles  I  gain'd  you  back 
Toulon,  when  proudly  on  her  captive  towers 
Wav'd  high  the  English  flag  ?  or  fought  I  then 
With  merchant  wiles,  when  sword  in  hand  I  led 
Your  troops  to  conquest?  fought  I  merchant  like, 
Or  barter'd  I  for  victory,  when  death 
Strode  o'er  the  reeking  streets  with  giant  stride, 
And  shook  his  ebon  plumes,  and  sternly  smil'd 
Amid  the  bloody  banquet?  when  appalled 
The  hireling  sons  of  England  spread  the  sail 
Of  safety,  fought  I  like  a  merchant  then  ? 
Oh,  patience !  patience ! 

Bourdon  L'Oise.  How  this  younger  tyrant 

Mouths  out  defiance  to  us !  even  so 
He  had  led  on  the  armies  of  the  south, 
Till  once  again  the  plains  of  France  were  drench'd 
With  her  best  blood. 

Collot  D'HerT)oi8.        Till,  once  again  displayed 
Lyons'  sad  tragedy  had  call'cl  me  forth 
The  minister  of  wrath,  whilst  slaughter  by 
Had  bathed  in  human  blood. 

Ditbois  Crance.  No  wonder,  friend, 

That  we  are  traitors — that  our  heads  must  fall 
Beneath  the  axe  of  death!    When  Caesar-like 
Reigns  Robespierre,  'tis  wisely  done  to  doom 
The  fall  of  Brutus.    Tell  me,  bloody  man, 
Hast  thou  not  parcell'd  out  deluded  France, 
As  ifc  had  been  some  province  won  in  fight 
Between  your  curst  triumvirate  ?    You,  Couthon, 
Go  with  my  brother  to  the  southern  plains ; 
St.  Just,  be  yours  the  army  of  the  north ; 
Meantime  I  rule  at  Paris. 

Robespierre.  Matchless  knave ! 

What — not  one  blush  of  conscience- on  thy  cheek — • 
Not  one  poor  blush  of  truth !    Most  likely  tale  ! 
That  I  who  ruin'd  Brissot's  towering  hopes, 
I  v/ho  discovered  Hubert's  impious  wiles, 
And  sharp'd  for  Danton's  recreant  neck  the  axe, 
Should  now  be  traitor !  had  I  been  so  minded, 
Think  ye  I  had  destroyed  the  very  men 
Whose  plots  resemble  mine  !    Bring  forth  your  proofs 
Of  this  deep  treason.    Tell  me  in  whose  breast 
Found  ye  the  fatal  scroll  ?  or  tell  me  rather 
Who  forged  the  shameless  falsehood  ? 

Collot  JfHerlois.  Ask  you  proofs  ? 

Robespierre,  what  proofs  were  ask'd  when  Brissot  died  ? 

Legendrc.  Whatproofs  adduced  you  when  the  Dan  ton  died? 
When  at  the  imminent  peril  of  my  life 
I  rose,  and  fearless  of  thy  frowning  brow, 
Proclaim'd  him  guiltless  I 


248  THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 

Robespierre.  I  remember  well 

The  fatal  day.     I  do  repent  me  much 
That  I  kill'd  Osesar  and  spar'd  Antony. 
But  I  have  been  too  lenient.     I  have  spar'd 
The  stream  of  blood,  and  now  my  own  must  flow 
To  fill  the  current.  [Loud  applauses. 

Triumph  not  too  soon, 
Justice  may  yet  be  victor. 

Enter  ST.  JUST,  and  mounts  the  Tribune. 

St.  Just.  I  come  from  the  committee — charged  to  speak 
Of  matters  of  high  import.     I  omit 
Their  orders.    Representatives  of  France, 
Boldly  in  his  own  person  speaks  St.  Just 
What  his  own  heart  shall  dictate. 

Tallien.  Hear  ye  this, 

Insulted  delegates  of  France  ?    St.  Just 
From  your  committee  comes — comes  charged  to  speak 
Of  matters  of  high  import — yet  omits 
Their  orders !     Representatives  of  France, 
That  bold  man  I  denounce,  who  disobeys 
The  nation's  orders. — I  denounce  St.  Just.  [Loud  applauses. 

St.  Just.  Hear  me  1  [  Violent  murmurs. 

Robespierre.  He  shall  be  heard  ! 

Bourdon  VOise.  Must  we  contaminate  this  sacred  hall 
With  the  foul  breath  of  treason  ? 

Collot  I)'Herboi».  Drag  him  away ! 

Heiice  with  him  to  the  bar. 

Coutlion.  Oh,  just  proceedings ! 

Robespierre  prevented  liberty  of  speech — 
And  Robespierre  is  a  tyrant !    Tallieu  reigns, 
He  dreads  to  hear  the  voice  of  innocence — 
And  St.  Just  must  be  silent! 

Legendre.  Heed  we  well 

That  justice  guide  our  actions.    No  light  import 
Attends  this  day.     I  move  St.  Just  be  heard. 

Freron.  Inviolate  be  the  sacred  right  of  man, 
The  freedom  of  debate.  [  Violent  applauses. 

St.  Just.  I  may  be  heard  then !  much  the  times  are  chaug'd, 
When  St.  Just  thanks  this  hall  for  hearing  him. 
Robespierre  is  call'd  a  tyrant.    Men  of  France, 
Judge  not  too  soon.     By  popular  discontent 
Was  Aristicles  driven  into  exile, 
Was  Phocion  murder'd.    Ere  yo  dare  pronounce 
Robespierre  is  guilty,  it  bents  ye  well, 
Consider  who  accuse  him.    Tallien, 
Bourdon  of  Oise — the  very  men  denounced, 
For  that  their  dark  intrigues  disturb'd  the  plan, 
Of  government.    Legendre  the  sworn  friend 
Of  Danton  fall' a  apostate.    Dubois  Crance, 
He  who  at  Lvons  spar'd  the  royalists — 
Collot  d'Herbois— 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  249 

Bourdon  VOise.  What— shall  the  traitor  rear 

His  head  amid  our  tribune — and  blaspheme 
Each  patriot  ?  shall  the  hireling  slave  of  faction — 

St.  Just.  I  am  of  no  one  faction.    I  contend 
Against  all  factions. 

Tallien.  I  espouse  the  cause 

Of  truth.    Robespierre  on  yester  morn  pronounced 
Upon  his  own  authority  a  report : 
To-day  St.  Just  comes  down.     St.  Just  neglects 
What  the  committee  orders,  and  harangues 
From  his  own  will.    O  citizens  of  France 
I  weep  for  you — I  weep  for  my  poor  country — 
I  tremble  for  the  cause  of  Liberty, 
When  individuals  shall  assume  the  sway, 
And  with  more  insolence  than  kingly  pride 
Rule  the  republic. 

Billaud  Varennes.  Shudder,  ye  representatives  of  France, 
Shudder  with  horror.    Henri ot  commands 
The  marshall'd  force  of  Pains.    Henriot, 
Foul  parricide — the  sworn  ally  of  Hebert, 
Denounced  by  all — upheld  by  Robespierre. 
Who  spar'd  La  Valette?  who  promoted  him, 
Stain'd  with  the  deep  dye  of  nobility  f 
Who  to  an  ex-peer  gave  the  high  command  ? 
Who  screen'd  from  justice  the  rapacious  thief? 
Who  cast  in  chains  the  friends  of  Liberty  ? 
Robespierre,  the  self-styled  patriot  Robespierre — 
Robespierre,  allied  with  villain  Daubign6 — 
Robespierre,  the  foul  arch  tyrant  Robespierre. 

Bourdon  L'Oise.  He  talks  of  virtue — of  morality — 
Consistent  patriot!  he  Daubign6's  friend! 
Heuriot's  supporter  virtuous !  preach  of  virtue, 
Yet  league  with  villains,  for  with  Robespierre 
Villains  alone  ally.    Thou  art  a  tyrant ! 
I  style  thee  tyrant,  Robespierre  I  [Loud  Applauses. 

Robespierre.  Take  back  the  name.  Ye  citizens  of  France — 
[  Violent  clamour.  Cries  of — "  Down  with  the  Tyrant!" 

Tallien.  Oppression  falls.    The  traitor  stands  appall' d — 
Guilt's  iron  fangs  engrasp  his  shrinking  soul — 
He  hears  assembled  France  denounce  his  crimes ! 
He  sees  the  mask  torn  from  his  secret  sins — 
He  trembles  on  the  precipice  of  fate. 
Fall'n  guilty  tyrant!  murder'd  by  thy  rage 
How  many  an  innocent  victim's  blood  has  stain'd 
Fair  freedom's  altar !     Sylla-like  thy'hand 
Mark'd  down  the  virtues,  that,  thy  foes  removM, 
Perpetual  Dictator  thou  might'st  reign, 
And  tyrannize  o'er  France,  and  call  it  freedom! 
Long  time  in  timid  guilt  the  traitor  plann'd 
His  fearful  wiles — success  emboldened  sin — 
And  his  stretch'd  arm  had  grasp'd  the  diadem 
Ere  now,  but  that  the  coward's  heart  recoil'd, 
K* 


250  THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 

Lest  France  awak'd  should  rouse  her  from  her  dream, 

And  call  aloud  for  vengeance.    He,  like  Caesar, 

With  rapid  step  urged  on  his  bold  career, 

Even  to  the  summit  of  ambitious  power, 

And  deem'd  the  name  of  King  alone  was  wanting. 

Was  it  for  this  we  hurl'd  proud  Capet  down  ? 

Is  it  for  this  we  wage  eternal  war 

Against  the  tyrant  horde  of  murderers, 

The  crowned  cockatrices  whose  foul  venom 

Infects  all  Europe  ?  was  it  then  for  this 

We  swore  to  guard  our  liberty  with  life, 

That  Robespierre  should  reign  f  the  spirit  of  freedom 

Is  not  yet  sunk  so  low.    The  glowing  flame 

That  animates  each  honest  Frenchman's  heart 

Not  yet  extinguish'd.    I  invoke  thy  shade, 

Immortal  Brutus!  I  too  wear  a  dagger; 

And  if  the  representatives  of  France, 

Through  fear  of  favour  should  delay  the  sword 

Of  justice,  Tallieii  emulates  thy  virtues; 

Tallien,  like  Brutus,  lifts  the  avenging  arm  ; 

Tallien  shall  save  his  country.  [  Violent  applauses. 

Billaud  Varennes.  I  demand 

The  arrest  of  all  these  traitors.    Memorable 
Will  be  this  day  for  France. 

Eobespurre.    *  Yes!  Memorable 

This  day  will  be  for  France— for  villains  triumph. 

Lebas.  I  will  not  share  in  this  day's  damning  guilt. 
Condemn  me  too.      [Great  cry — "  Down  with  the  Tyrants/" 
[The  two  RoBEsriERRES,  COUTHON,  ST.  JUST,  and 
LEBAS  are  led  off. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  continues. 

Collot  D'Hcrbois.  Caesar  is  fallen  !  The  baneful  tree  of 
Whose  death-distilling  boughs  dropt  poisonous  dew,  [Java, 
Is  rooted  from  its  base.    This  worse  than  Cromwell, 
The  austere,  the  self-denying  Robespierre, 
Even  in  this  hall,  where*once  with  terror  mute 
We  listened  to  the  hypocrite's  harangues, 
Has  heard  his  doom. 

Billaud  Varrenties.    Yet  must  we  not  suppose 
The  tyrant  will  fall  tamely.     His  sworn  hireling 
Henriot,  the  daring  desperate  Henriot 
Commands  the  force  of  Paris.     I  denounce  him. 

Frcron.  I  denounce  Fleuriot  too,  the  mayor  of  Paris. 

Enter  DUBOIS  GRANGE. 

Dub.  Cra.  Robespierre  is  rescued.     Henriot  at  the  head 
Of  the  arni'd  force  has  rescued  the  fierce  tyrant. 


THE  FALL  OF  KOBESPIERRE.  251 

Collot  D'Herbois.  Ring  the  tocsin — call  all  the  citizens 
To  save  their  country — never  yet  has  Paris 
Forsook  the  representatives  of  France. 

Tallien.  It  is  the  hour  of  danger.    I  propose 
This  sitting  be  made  permanent.  [  Loud  applauses. 

Collot  D'Herbois.  The  national  Convention  shall  remain 
Firm  at  its  post. 

Enter  a  MESSENGER. 

Mes.  Robespierre    has    reach'd   the    Commune.     They 
The  tyrant's  cause.    St.  Just  is  up  in  arms!  [espouse 

St.  Just — the  young  ambitious  bold  St.  Just 
Harangues  the  mob.    The  sanguinary  Couthon 
Thirsts  for  your  blood.  [  Tocsin  rings. 

Tallien.  These  tyrants  axe,  in  arms  against  the  law : 
Outlaw  the  rebels. 

Enter  MERLIN  of  Douay. 

Her.  Health  to  the  representatives  of  France ! 
I  passed  this  moment  through  the  armed  force — 
They  ask'd  my  name — and  when  they  heard  a  delegate, 
Swore  I  was  not  the  friend  of  France.  [turn'd 

Collot  D'Herlois.    The  tyrants  threaten  us  as  when  they 
The  cannon's  mouth  on  Brissot. 

Enter  another  MESSENGER. 

2nd  Mcs.  Vivier  harangues  the  Jacobins — the  club 
Espouse  the  cause  of  Robespierre. 

Enter  another  MESSENGER, 

3rd  Mes.  All's  lost — the  tyrant  triumphs.    Henriot  leads 
The  soldiers  to  his  aid — already  I  hear 
The  rattling  cannon  destin'd  to  surround 
This  sacred  hall. 

Tallien.  Why,  we  will  die  like  men  then. 

The  representatives  of  France  dare  death, 
When  duty  steels  their  bosoms.  [Loud  applauses. 

Tallien.  (addressing  the  galleries.)  Citizens! 
France  is  insulted  in  her  delegates — 
The  majesty  of  the  republic  is  insulted — 
Tyrants  are  up  in  arms.     An  armed  force 
Threats  the  Convention.    The  Convention  swears 
To  die,  or  save  the  country ! 

[  Violent  applauses  from  the  galleries. 

Citizen,  (from  above.)  We  too  swear 

To  die  or  save  the  country.    Follow  me. 

[All  the  men  quit  the  galleries. 

Enter  another  MESSENGER. 

4th  Mes.  Henriot  is  taken ! —  [Loud  applauses. 

Henriot  is  taken.    Three  of  your  brave  soldiers 
Swore  they  would  seize  the  rebel  slave  of  tyrants, 


252  THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 

Or  perish  in  the  attempt.  As  he  patrol  I'd 
The  streets  of  Paris,  stirring  up  the  mob, 
They  sei/'d  him.  [  Applauses. 

Billaud  Varennes.  Let  the  names  of  these  brave  men 
Live  to  the  future  day. 

Enter  BOURDON  L'OiSE,  sword  in  hand. 

Bour.  L'Oise.  I  have  clear'd  the  Commune.      [Applauses. 

Through  the  throng  I  rush'd, 
Brandishing  my  good  sword  to  drench  its  blade 
Deep  in  the  tyrant's  heart.     The  timid  rebels 
Gave  way,    I  met  the  soldiery — I  spake 
Of  the  dictator's  crimes — of  patriots  chain'd 
In  dark  deep  dungeons  by  his  lawless  rage — 
Of  knaves  secure  beneath  his  fostering  power. 
I  spake  of  Liberty.     Their  honest  hearts 
Caught  the  warm  flame.    The  general  shout  burst  forth, 
"Live  the  Convention — Down  with  Robesp;erre !" 

[  Applauses. 
[Shouts  from  without — "  Down  with  the  Tyrant!" 

Tallitn.  I  hear,  I  hear  the  soul-inspiring  sounds, 
France  shall  be  saved!  her  generous  sons  attached 
To  principles,  not  persons,  spurn  the  idol 
They  worshipp'd  once.    Yes,  Robespierre  shall  fall 
As  Capet  fell!  Oh!  never  let  us  deem 
That  France  shall  crouch  beneath  a  tyrant's  throne, 
That  the  almighty  people  who  have  broke 
On  their  oppressor's  head  the  oppressive  chain, 
Will  court  again  their  fetters !  easier  were  it 
To  hurl  the  cloud-capt  mountain  from  its  base, 
Thau  force  the  bonds  of  slavery  on  men 
Determined  to  be  free!  [ Applauses. 

Enter  LEGENDRE — A  pistol  in  one  hand,  keys  in  the  other. 

Leg.  (flinging  down  the  keys.)  So — let  the  mutinous  Jacob- 
ins meet  now 
In  the  open  air.  [Loud  applauses. 

A  factious  turbulent  party 
Lording  it  o'er  the  state  since  Dan  ton  died, 
And  with  him  the  Cordeliers. — A  hireling  band 
Of  loud-tongued  orators  controll'd  the  club 
And  bad  them  bow  the  knee  to  Robespierre. 
Vivier  has  'scap'd  me.     Curse  his  coward  heart — 
This  fate-fraught  tube  of  Justice  in  my  hand, 
1  rush'd  into  the  hall.     He  inark'd  mine  eye 
That  beam'd  its  patriot  anger,  and  flash'd  full 
With  death-denouncing  meaning.     'Mid  the  throng 
He  mingled.    I  pursued — but  staid  my  hand, 
Lest  haply  I  might  shed  the  innocent  blood.       [  Applauses. 

Freron.  They  took  from  me  my  ticket  of  admission — 
Expell'd  me  from  their  sittings. — Now.  forsooth, 
Humbled  and  trembling  re-insert  my  name. 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  253 

But  Freron  enters  not  the  club  again 

Till  it  be  purg'd  of  guilt— till,  purified 

Of  tyrants  and  of  traitors,  honest  men 

May  breathe  the  air  in  safety.  [Shouts  from  without. 

Barrere.  Wbat  means  this  uproar?  if  the  tyrant  baud 
Should  gain  the  people  once  again  to  rise — 
We  are  as  dead ! 

Tallien.  And  wherefore  fear  we  death? 

Did  Brutus  fear  it  ?  or  the  Grecian  friends 
Who  buried  in  Hipparchus'  breast  the  sword, 
And  died  triumphant  ?  Caesar  should  fear  death, 
Brutus  must  scorn  the  bugbear. 

[Shouts  from  without — "Live  the  Convention!" — 
"  Down  with  the  tyrants !" 

Tallien.  Hark!  again 

The  sounds  of  honest  Freedom  ! 

Enter  Deputies  from  the  Sections. 
Citizen.  Citizens !  representatives  of  France ! 
Hold  on  your  steady  course.    The  men  of  Paris 
Espouse  your  cause.    The  men  of  Paris  swear 
They  will  defend  the  delegates  of  Freedom. 

Tallien.  Here  ye  this,   Colleagues?    hear  ye  this,   rny 

brethren  ? 

And  does  no  thrill  of  joy  pervade  your  breasts? 
My  bosom  bounds  to  rapture.    I  bave  seen 
The  sons  of  France  shake  off  the  tyrant  yoke  ; 
I  have,  as  much  as  lies  in  mine  own  arm, 
HurPd  down  the  usurper. — Come  death  when  it  will 
I  have  lived  long  enough.  [Shouts  witliout. 

Barrere.  Hark!    how  the  noise  increases!   through  the 

gloom 

Of  the  still  evening — harbinger  of  death 
Rings  the  tocsin!  the  dreadful  generale 
Thunders  through  Paris. — 

[Cry  without-  "Down  with  the  Tyrants  !'•' 

Enter  LECOINTBE. 

Lee.  So  may  eternal  justice  blast  the  foes 
Of  France !  so  perish  all  the  tyrant  brood, 
As  Robespierre  has  perished!  Citizens, 
Csesar  is  taken.  [Loud  and  repeated  applauses. 

I  marvel  not  that  with  such  fearless  front 
He  braved  our  vengeance,  and  with  angry  eye 
Scowled  round  the  hall  defiance.     He  relied 
On  Henriot's  aid — the  Commune's  villain  friendship, 
And  Henri ofc's  boughten  succours.    Ye  have  heard 
How  Henriot  rescued  him — how  with  open  arms 
The  Commune  welcom'd  in  the  rebel  tyrant — 
How  Fleuriot  aided,  and  seditious  Vivier 
Stirr'd  up  the  Jacobins.    All  had  been  lost — 
The  representatives  of  France  had  perish'd — 


254  THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 

Freedom  had  sunk  beneath  the  tyrant  arm 
Of  this  foul  parricide,  but  that  her  spirit 
Inspir'd  the  men  of  Paris.     Henriot  call'd 
"  To  arms"  in  vain,  whilst  Bourdon's  patriot  voice 
Breath'd  eloquence,  and  o'er  the  Jacobins 
Legendre  frown'd  dismay.    The  tyrants  fled — 
They  reach'd  the  Hotel.    We  gather' d  round — we  call'd 
For  vengeance!  Long  time,  obstinate  in  despair 
With  knives  they  hack'd  around  them.    Till  foreboding 
The  sentence  of  the  law,  the  clamorous  cry 
Of  joyful  thousands  hailing  their  destruction, 
Each  sought  by  suicide  to  escape  the  dread 
Of  death.    Lebas  succeeded.    From  the  window 
Leapt  the  younger  Robespierre,  but  his  fractured  limb 
Forbade  to  escape.    The  self-will'd  dictator 
Plung'd  often  the  keen  knife  in  his  dark  breast, 
Yet  impotent  to  die.    He  lives  all  mangled 
By  his  own  tremulous  hand!  All  gash'd  and  gored 
He  lives  to  taste  the  bitterness  of  death. 
Even  now  they  meet  their  doom.    The  bloody  Couthon, 
The  fierce  St.  Just,  even  now  attend  their  tyrant 
To  fall  beneath  the  axe.    I  saw  the  torches 
Flash  on  their  visages  a  dreadful  light— 
I  saw  them  whilst  the  black  blood  roll'd  adown 
Each  stem  face,  even  then  with  dauntless  eye 
Scowl  round  contemptuous,  dying  as  they  lived, 
Fearless  of  fate !  [Loud  and  repeated  applauses. 

Barrere  (mounts  the  Tribune.)  Forever  hallowed  be  this 

glorious  day, 

When  Freedom,  bursting  her  oppressive  chain, 
Tramples  on  the  oppressor.    When  the  tyrant 
Hurl'd  from  his  blood-cemented  throne,  by  the  arm 
Of  the  almighty  people,  meets  the  death 
He  plann'd  for  thousands.    Oh !  my  sickening  heart 
Has  suuk  within  me,  when  the  various  woes 
Of  my  brave  country  crowded  o'er  my  brain 
In  ghastly  numbers — when  assembled  hordes 
Dragg'd  from  their  hovels  by  despotic  power 
Rush'd  o'er  her  frontiers,  plundered  her  fair  hamlets, 
And  sack'd  her  populous  towns,  and  drench'd  with  blood 
The  reeking  fields  of  Flanders. — When  within, 
Upon  her  vitals  prey'd  the  rankling  tooth 
Of  treason;  and  oppression,  giant-iorm, 
Trampling  on  freedom,  left  the  alternative 
Of  slavery,  or  of  death.    Even  from  that  day, 
When,  on  the  guilty  Capet,  I  pronounced 
The  doom  of  in  j  ured  France,  has  faction  reared 
Her  hated  head  amongst  us.     Roland  preach'd 
Of  mercy — the  uxorious  dotard  Roland, 
The  woman-govern'd  Roland  durst  aspire 
To  govern  France;  and  Potion  talk'd  of  virtue, 
And  Vergniaud's  eloquence,  like  the  honeyed  tongue 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE.  255 

Of  some  soft  Siren,  wooed  us  to  destruction. 

We  triumphed  over  these.    On  the  same  scaffold 

Where  the  last  Louis  pour'd  his  guilty  blood, 

Fell  Brissot's  head,  the  womb  of  darksome  treasons, 

And  Orleans,  villain  kinsman  of  the  Capet, 

And  Hebert's  atheist  crew,  whose  maddening  hand 

Hurl'd  down  the  altars  of  the  living  God, 

With  all  the  infidel's  intolerance. 

The  last  worst  traitor  triumphed — triumph' d  long, 

Secur'd  by  matchless  villany.     By  turns 

Defending  aud  deserting  each  accomplice 

As  interest  prompted.    In  the  goodly  soil 

Of  Freedom,  the  foul  tree  of  treason  struck 

Its  deep-fix'd  roots,  and  dropt  the  dews  of  death 

On  all  who  slumbered  in  its  specious  shade. 

He  wove  the  web  of  treachery.    He  caught 

The  listening  crowd  by  his  wild  eloquence, 

His  cool  ferocity  that  persuaded  murder, 

Even  whilst  it  spake  of  mercy!  never,  never 

Shall  this  regenerated  country  wear 

The  despot  yoke.     Though  myriads  round  assail, 

And  with  worse  fury  urge  this  new  crusade 

Than  savages  have  known ;  though  the  leagued  despots 

Depopulate  all  Europe,  so  to  pour 

The  accumulated  mass  upon  our  coasts, 

Sublime  amid  the  storm  shall  France  arise, 

And  like  the  rock  amid  surrounding  waves 

Repel  the  rushing  ocean. — She  shall  wield 

The  thunderbolt  of  vengeance— she  shall  blast 

The  despot's  pride,  and  liberate  the  world ! 


THE  PICCOLOMINI, 

OR 

THE  FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 
A  DRAMA. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  SCHILLER. 


PREFACE  OF  THE  TRANSLATOR. 

IT  was  my  intention  to  have  prefixed  a  Life  of  Wallenstein  to  this 
translation ;  but  I  found  that  it  must  either  have  occupied  a  space 
wholly  disproportionate  to  the  nature  of  the  publication,  or  have 
been  merely  a  meagre  catalogue  of  events  narrated  not  more  fully 
than  they  already  are  in  the  Play  itself.  The  recent  translation, 
likewise,  of  Schiller's  HISTORY  of  the  THIRTY  YEARS'  WAR  dimin- 
ished the  motives  thereto.  In  the  translation  I  endeavoured  to 
rendermy  Author  literally  wherever  I  was  not  prevented  by  abso 
lute  differences  of  idiom;  but  I  am  conscious,  that  in  two  or  three 
short  passages  I  have  been  guilty  of  dilating  the  original;  and.  from 
anxiety  to  give  the  full  meaning,  have  weakened  the  force.  In  the 
metre'l  have  availed  myself  of  no  other  liberties  than  those  which 
Schiller  had  permitted  to  himself,  except  the  occasional  breaking* 
up  of  the  line  by  the  substitution  of  a  trochee  for  an  iambic;  of 
which  liberty,  so  frequent  in  our  tragedies,  I  find  no  instance  in 
these  dramas.  S.T.COLERIDGE. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — An  old  Gothic  Chamber  in  the  Council  House  at 
PUsen,  decorated  with  Colours  and  other  War  Insignia. 

ILLO  with  BUTLER  and  ISOLANI. 

Illo.  YE  have  come  late — but  ye  are  come !  The  distance, 
Count  Isolan,  excuses  your  delay 

Iso.  Add  this  too,  that  we  come  not  empty  handed. 
At  Donauwert*  it  was  reported  to  us, 
A  Swedish  caravan  was  on  its  way 
Transporting  a  rich  cargo  of  provision, 
Almost  six  hundred  waggons.     This  my  Croats 

Plunged  down  upon  and  seized,  this  weighty  prize ! 

We  bring  it  hither 

Illo.  Just  in  time  to  banquet 

The  illustrious  company  assembled  here. 

But.  'Tis  all  alive!  a  stirring  scene  here! 

Iso.  Ay !         [round. 

The  very  churches  are  all  full  of  soldiers.        [  Casts  hi*  eye 

*A  town  about  twelve  German  miles  N.  E.  of  Ulm. 


THE  PICCOLOMINI.  257 

And  in  the  Council-house  too,  I  observe, 

You're  settled,  quite  at  home !    Well,  well !  we  soldiers 

Must  shift  and  suit  us  in  what  way  we  can. 

Illo.  We  Lave  the  Colonels  here  of  thirty  regiments. 
You'll  find  Count  Tertsky  here,  and  Tiefenbach, 
Kolatto,  Goetz,  Maradas,  Hinnersam, 

The  Piccolomini,  both  son  and  father 

You'll  meet  with  many  an  unexpected  greeting 
From  many  an  old  friend  aim  acquaintance.     Only 
Galas  is  wanting  still,  and  Altringer. 

But.  Expect  not  Galas. 

Illo.  (hesitating.)  How  so?    Do  you  know 

Iso.  (interrupting  him.)  Max.  Piccolomini  here? O  bring 

me  to  him. 

I  see  him  yet,  ('tis  now  ten  years  ago, 
We  were  engaged  with  Mansfeld  hard  by  Dessau) 
I  seethe  youth,  in  my  mind's  eye  I  see  him, 
Leap  his  black  war-horse  from  the  bridge  adown, 
And  t'ward  his  father,  then  in  extreme  peril, 
Beat  up  against  the  strong  tide  of  the  Elbe. 
The  down  was  scarce  upon  his  chin !  I  hear 
He  has  made  good  the  promise  of  his  youth, 
And  the  full  hero  now  is  finished  in  him. 

Illo.  You'll  see  him  yet  ere  evening.     He  conducts 
The  Duchess  Friedland  hither,  and  the  Princess* 
From  Carnthen.     We  expect  them  here  at  noon. 

But.  Both  wife  and  daughter  does  the  Duke  call  hither  ? 
He  crowds  in  visitants  from  all  sides. 

Iso.  Hm ! 

So  much  the  better!  I  had  framed  my  mind 
To  hear  of  naught  but  warlike  circumstance, 
Of  marches,  and  attacks,  and  batteries: 
And  lo !  the  Duke  provides,  that  something  too 
Of  gentler  sort,  and  lovely,  should  be  present 
To  feast  our  eyes. 

Illo.  (who  has  been  standing  in  the  attitude  of  meditation,  to 

BUTLER,  whom  he  leads  a  little  on  one  sidl.) 
And  how  came  you  to  know 
That  the  Count  Galas  joins  us  not  ? 

But.  Because 

He  importuned  me  to  remain  behind. 

Illo.  (with  warmth.)    And  you  ? — You  hold  out  firmly  ? 

[Grasping  his  hand  with  affection. 
Noble  Butler ! 

But.  After  the  obligation  which  the  Duke 
Had  layed  so  newly  on  me 

Illo.  I  had  forgotten 

A  pleasant  duty — Major  General, 
I  wish  you  joy ! 

*  The  Dukes  in  Germany  being  always  reigning  powers,  their  sons 
and  daughters  are  entitled  Princes  and  Princesses. 


258  THE  riCCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Iso.  What,  yon  mean,  of  his  regiment ! 

I  hear,  too,  that,  to  make  the  gift  still  sweeter, 
The  Duke  has  given  him  the  very  same 
In  which  he  first  saw  service,  ami  since  then, 
Worked  himself,  step  by  step,  through  each  preferment, 
From  the  ranks  upwards.    And  verily,  it  gives 
A  precedent  of  hope,  a  spur  of  action 
To  the  whole  corps,  if  once  in  their  remembrance 
An  old  deserving  soldier  makes  his  way 

But.  I  am  perplexed  and  doubtful,  whether  or  no 
I  dare  accept  this  your  congratulation. 
The  Emperor  has  not  yet  confirmed  the  appointment,  [post 

Iso.  Seize  it,  friend  !  Seize  it !    The  hand  which  in  that 
Placed  you,  is  strong  enough  to  keep  you  there, 
Spite  of  the  Emperor  and  his  Ministers! 

Illo.  Ay,  if  we  would  but  so  consider  it ! — 
If  we  would  all  of  us  consider  it  so  I 
The  Emperor  gives  us  nothing  ;  from  the  Duke 
Comes  all — whate'er  we  hope,  whate'er  we  bav. 

Iso.  (to  ILLO.)  My  noble  brother !  Did  I  tell  you  how 
The  Duke  will  satisfy  my  creditors  ? 
Will  be  himself  my  banker  for  the  future, 
Make  me  once  more  a  creditable  man ! — 
And  this  is  now  the  tbird  time,  think  of  that! 
This  kingly-minded  man  has  rescued  me 
From  absolute  ruin,  and  restored  my  honour. 

Illo.  O  that  his  power  but  kept  pace  with  his  wishes ! 
Why,  friend!  he'd  give  the  whole  world  to  his  soldiers. 
But  at  Vienna,  brother! — here's  the  grievance! — 
What  politic  schemes  do  they  not  lay  to  shorten 
His  arm,  and,  where  they  can,  to  clip  his  pinions. 
Then  these  new  dainty  requisitions  !  these, 
Which  this  same  Questeuberg  brings  hither! — 

Bat.  Ay! 

These  requisitions  of  the  Emperor, — 
I  too  have  heard  about  them  :  but  I  hope 
The  Duke  will  not  draw  back  a  single  inch  ! 

Illo.  Not  from  his  right  most  surely,  unless  first 
— From  office ! 

But.  (shocked  and  confused.)  Know  you  aught  then  ?    You 
alarm  me. 

Iso.  (at  the  same  time  with  BUTLER,  and  in  a  hurrying  voice.) 
We  should  be  ruined,  every  one  of  us ! 

Illo.  No  more! 

Yonder  I  see  our  worthy  friend*  approaching 
With  the  Lieuten ant-General,  Piccolomini. 

JBut.  (shaking  his  head  significantly.')    I  fear  we  shall  not 
go  hence  as  we  came. 

*  Spoken  with  a  sneer. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  259 


SCENE  II. — Enter  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  and  QUESTENBEKG. 

Oct.  (still  in  the  distance.)  Ay,  ay!  more  still!   Still  more 

new  visitors  ! 

Acknowledge,  friend !  that  never  was  a  camp,  [nearer. 
Which  held  at  once  so  many  heads  of  heroes.  [Approaching 
Welcome,  Count  Isolani ! 

Iso.  My  noble  brother, 

Even  now  I  am  arrived;  it  had  been  else  my  dnty — 

Oct.  And  Colonel  Butler — trust  me,  I  rejoice 
Thus  to  renew  acquaintance  with  a  man 
Whose  worth  and  services  I  know  and  honour. 
See,  see,  my  friend ! 

There  might  we  place  at  once  before  our  eyes 
The  sum  of  war's  whole  trade  and  mystery — 

[To  QUESTENBERG,  presenting  BUTLER  and  ISOLANI 

at  the  same  time  to  him. 
These  two  the  total  sum— Strength  and  Dispatch. 

Ques.  (to  OCTAVIO.)  Andlo!  betwixt  them  both  experi- 
enced Prudence ! 

Oct.  (presenting  QUESTENBERG  to  BUTLER  and  ISOLANI.) 
The  Chamberlain  and  War-commissioner  Questenberg, 
The  bearer  of  the  Emperor's  behests, 
The  long-tried  friend  and  patron  of  all  soldiers, 
We  honour  in  this  noble  visitor.  [  Universal  silence. 

Illo.  (moving  towards  QUESTENBERG.)      'Tis  not  the  first 

time,  noble  Minister, 
You  have  shown  our  camp  this  honour. 

Ques.  Once  before 

I  stood  before  these  colours. 

lUo.  Perchaiice  too  you  remember  where  that  was. 
It  was  at  Znaim*  in  Moravia,  where 
You  did  present  yourself  upon  the  part 
Of  the  Emperor,  to  supplicate  our  Duke 
That  he  would  straight  assume  the  chief  command. 

Ques.  To  supplicate  ?    Nay,  noble  General ! 
So  far  extended  neither  my  commission 
(At  least  to  my  own  knowledge  J  nor  my  zeal. 

Illo.  Well,  well,  then— to  compel  him,  if  you  chuse. 
I  can  remember  me  right  well.  Count  Tilly 
Had  suffered  total  rout  upon  the  Lech. 
Bavaria  lay  all  open  to  the  enemy, 
Whom  there  was  nothing  to  delay  from  pressing 
Onwards  into  the  very  heart  of  Austria. 
At  that  time  you  and  Werdenberg  appeared 
Before  our  General,  storming  him  with  prayers, 
And  menacing  the  Emperor's  displeasure, 
Unless  he  took  compassion  on  this  wretchedness,  [enough, 

Iso.  (Steps  up  to  them.)   Yes,  yes,  'tis  comprehensible 

*  A  town  not  far  from  the  Mine-mountains,  on  the  high  road  from 
Vienna  to  Prague. 


260  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Wherefore  with  your  commission  of  to-day 
You  were  not  all  too  willing  to  remember 
Your  former  one. 

Ques.  Why  not,  Count  Isolan  ? 
No  contradiction  sure  exists  between  them. 
It  was  the  urgent  business  of  that  time 
To  snatch  Bavaria  from  her  enemy's  hand: 
And  my  commission  of  to-day  instructs  me 
To  free  her  from  her  good  friends  and  protectors. 

17/0.  A  worthy  office  I  After  with  our  blood 
We  have  wrested  this  Bohemia  from  the  Saxcn, 
To  be  swept  out  of  it  is  all  our  thanks, 
The  sole  reward  of  all  our  hard-won  victories. 

Ques.  Unless  that  wretched  land  be  doomed  to  suffer 
Only  a  change  of  evils,  it  must  be 
Freed  from  the  scourge  alike  of  friend  and  foe. 

Illo.  What  ?    ?Twas  a  favourable  year ;  the  Boors 
Can  answer  fresh  demands  already. 

Qiies.  Nay, 

If  you  discourse  of  herds  and  meadow-grounds — 

ho.  The  war  maintains  the  war.     Are  the  Boors  ruined, 
The  Emperor  gains  so  many  morii  new  soldiers. 

Ques.  And  is  the  poorer  by  even  so  many  subjects, 

lao.  Poh  !     We  are  all  his  subjects. 

Ques.  Yet  with  a  difference,  General !    The  one  fill 
With  profitable  industry  the  purse, 
The  others  are  well  skilled  to  empty  it. 
The  sword  has  made  the  Emperor  poor ;  the  plough 
Must  rein vigorate  his  resources. 

Iso.'  Sure! 

Times  are  not  yet  so  bad.    Methinks  I  see 

[Examining  with  his  eye  the  dress  and  ornaments  of 

QUESTENBERG. 

Good  store  of  gold  that  still  remains  uncoined.         [to  hide 
Ques.  Thank  Heaven !  that  means  have  been  found  out 

Some  little  from  the  fingers  of  the  Croats. 
Illo.  There!  The  Stawata  and  the  Martinitz, 

On  whom  the  Emperor  heaps  his  gifts  and  graces, 

To  the  heart-burning  of  all  good  Bohemians — 

Those  minions  of  court  favour,  those  court  harpies, 

Who  fatten  on  the  wrecks  of  citizens 

Driven  from  their  house  and  home — who  reap  no  harvests 

Save  in  the  general  calamity — 

Who  now,  with  kingly  pomp,  insult  and  mock 

The  desolation  of  their  country — these, 

Let  these,  and  such  as  these,  support  the  war, 

The  fatal  war,  which  they  alone  enkindled ! 

But.  And  those  state  parasites,  who  have  their  feet 

So  constantly  beneath  the  Emperor's  table, 

Who  cannot  let  a  benefice  fall,  but  they 

Snap  at  it  with  dog's  hunger — they,  forsooth, 

Would  pare  the  soldier's  bread,  and  crosp,  his  reckoning  ! 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  261 

Iso.  My  life  long  will  it  anger  me  to  think, 
How  when  I  went  to  court  seven  years  ago, 
To  see  about  new  horses  for  our  regiment, 
How  from  one  antechamber  to  another 
They  dragged  me  on,  and  left  me  by  the  hour 
To  kick  my  heels  among  a  crowd  of  simpering 
Feast-fattened  slaves,  as  if  I  had  come  thither 
A  mendicant  suitor  for  the  crumbs  of  favour 
That  fall  beneath  their  tables.    And,  at  last, 
Whom  should  they  send  me  but  a  Capuchin ! 
Straight  I  began  to  muster  up  my  sins 
For  absolution — but  no  such  luck  for  me  ! 
This  was  the  man,  this  Capuchin,  with  whom 
I  was  to  treat  concerning  the  army  horses: 
And  I  was  forced  at  last  to  quit  the  field, 
The  business  unaccomplished.    Afterwards 
The  Duke  procured  me  in  three  days,  what  I 
Could  not  obtain  in  thirty  at  Vienna.  [way  to  us : 

Ques.  Yes,  yes!   your  travelling  bills  soon  found  their 
Too  well  I  know  we  have  still  accounts  to  settle. 

Illo.  War  is  a  violent  trade;  one  cannot  always 
Finish  one's  work  by  soft  means;  every  trifle 
Must  not  be  blackened  into  sacrilege. 
If  we  should  wait  till  you,  in  solemn  council, 
With  due  deliberation  had  selected 
The  smallest  out  of  four-and-twenty  evils, 
I' faith  we  should  wait  long. —  [word. 

"Dash!  and  through  with  it!"— That's  the  better  watch- 
Then  after  come  what  may  come.    'Tis  man's  nature 
To  make  the  best  of  a  bad  thing  once  past. 
A  bitter  and  perplexed  "  What  shall  I  do  I ' ' 
Is  worse  to  man  than  worst  necessity. 

Ques.  Ay,  doubtless,  it  is  true :  the  Duke  does  spare  us 
The  troublesome  task  of  chusing. 

But.  Yes,  the  Duke 

Cares  with  a  father's  feelings  for  his  troops ; 
But  how  the  Emperor  feels  for  us,  we  see. 

Ques.  His  cares  and  feelings  all  ranks  share  alike, 
Nor  will  he  offer  one  up  to  another. 

Iso.  And  therefore  thrusts  he  us  into  the  deserts 
As  beasts  of  prey,  that  so  he  may  preserve 
His  dear  sheep  fattening  in  his  fields  at  home.  [not  I. 

Ques.   (with  a  sneer.)   Count,  this  comparison  you  make, 

But.  Why,  were  we  all  the  Court  supposes  us, 
'T \vcre  dangerous,  sure,  to  give  us  liberty. 

Ques.  You  have  taken  liberty — it  was  not  given  you. 
And  therefore  it  becomes  an  urgent  duty 
To  rein  it  in  with  curbs.  [noble  friend, 

Oct.   (interposing    and    addressing    QUESTENBERG.)     My 
This  is  no  more  than  a  remembranciug 
That  you  are  now  in  camp,  and  among  warriors. 
The  soldier's  boldness  constitutes  his  freedom. 


262  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Could  he  act  daringly,  unless  he  dared 

Talk  even  so  ?    One  runs  into  the  other. 

The  boldness  of  this  worthy  officer,      [  Pointing  to  BUTLER. 

Which  now  has  but  mistaken  in  its  mark, 

Preserved,  when  nought  but  boldness  could  preserve  it, 

To  the  Emperor  his  capital  city,  Prague, 

In  a  most  formidable  mutiny 

Of  the  whole  garrison.  [Military  music  at  a  distance. 

Hah !  here  they  come ! 

Illo.  The  sentries  are  saluting  them :  this  signal 
Announces  the  arrival  of  the  Duchess. 

Oct.  (to  QUESTENBERG.)  Then  my  son  Max.  too  has  re- 
turned.   T'was  he 
Fetched  and  attended  them  from  Carnthen  hither. 

I*o.  (to  ILLO.)  Shall  we  not  go  in  company  to  greet  them? 

Illo.  Well,  let  us  go. — Ho !  Colonel  Butler,  come. 

[  To  OCTAVIO. 

You'll  not  forget,  that  yet  ere  noon  we  meet 
The  noble  Envoy  at  the  General's  palace. 

[Exeunt  all  but  QUESTENBERG  and  OCTAVIO. 


SCENE  III.— QUESTENBERG  and  OCTAVIO. 

Qit€8.    (tvith  signs  of  aversion  and  astonishment.)    What 

have  I  not  been  forced  to  hear,  Octavio ! 
What  sentiments!  what  fierce,  uncurbed  defiance! 
And  were  this  spirit  universal — 

Oct.  Hm! 

You  are  now  acquainted  with  three  fourths  of  the  army. 

QHCS.  Where  must  we  seek  then  for  a  second  host 
To  have  the  custody  of  this  ?    That  Illo 
Thinks  worse,  I  fear  me,  than  he  speaks.    And  then 
This  Butler  too — he  cannot  even  conceal 
The  passionate  workings  of  his  ill  intentions. 

Oct.  Quickness  of  temper — irritated  pride  ; 
'Twas  nothing  more.     I  cannot  give  up  Butler. 
I  know  a  spell  that  will  soon  dispossess 
The  evil  spirit  in  him.  [friend ! 

Ques.  (walking  up  and  down  in  evident  disquiet.)  Friend, 
O !  this  is  worse,  far  worse,  than  we  had  suffered 
Ourselves  to  dream  of  at  Vienna.    There 
We  saw  it  only  with  a  courtier's  eyes, 
Eyes  dazzled  by  the  splendour  of  the  throne. 
We  had  not  seen  the  War-chief,  the  Commander, 
The  man  all-powerful  in  Ijis  camp.    Here,  here, 
'Tis  quite  another  thing. 

Here  is  no  Emperor  more — the  Duke  is  Emperor. 
Alas,  my  friend!  alas,  my  noble  friend  ! 
This  walk  which  you  have  ta'en  me  through  the  camp 
Strikes  my  hopes  prostrate. 

Oct.  Now  you  see  yourself 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  263 

Of  what  a  perilous  kind  t7  e  office  is, 
Which  you  deliver  to  me  from  the  Court. 
The  least  suspicion  of  the  General 
Costs  me  my  freedom  and  my  life,  and  would 
But  hasten  his  most  desperate  enterprise. 

Qucs.  Where  was  our  reason  sleeping  when  we  trusted 
This  madman  with  the  sword,  and  placed  such  power 
In  such  a  hand  ?  I  tell  you,  he'll  refuse, 
Flatly  refuse,  to  obey  the  Imperial  orders. 
Friend,  he  can  do't,  and  what  he  can,  he  will. 
And  then  the  impunity  of  his  defiance — 
O !  what  a  proclamation  of  our  weakness ! 

Oct.  D'ye  think  too,  he  has  brought  his  wife  and  daughter 
Without  a  purpose  hither?  Here  in  camp! 
And  at  the  very  point  of  time,  in  which 
We're  arming  for  the  war  ?  That  he  has  taken 
These,  the  last  pledges  of  his  loyalty, 
Away  from  out  the  Emperor's  domains — 
This  is  no  doubtful  token  of  the  nearness 
Of  some  eruption ! 

Ques.  How  shall  we  hold  footing 

Beneath  this  tempest,  which  collects  itself 
And  threats  us  from  all  quarters  ?  The  enemy 
Of  the  empire  on  our  borders,  now  already 
The  master  of  the  Danube,  and  still  farther, 
And  farther  still,  extending  every  hour ! 
In  our  interior  the  alarum-bells 

Of  insurrection — peasantry  in  arms 

All  orders  discontented — and  the  army, 
Just  in  the  moment  of  our  expectation 
Of  aidance  from  it — lo!  this  very  army 
Seduced,  run  wild,  lost  to  all  discipline, 
Loosened,  and.  rent  asunder  from  the  state 
And  from  their  sovereign,  the  blind  instrument 
Of  the  most  daring  of  mankind,  a  weapon 
Of  fearful  power,  which  at  his  will  he  wields ! 

Oct.  Nay,  nay,  friend  !  let  us  not  despair  too  soon. 
Men's  words  are  ever  bolder  than  their  deeds  : 
And  many  a  resolute,  who  now  appears 
Made  up  to  all  extremes,  will,  on  a  sudden, 
Find  in  his  breast  a  heart  he  wot  not  of, 
Let  but  a  single  honest  man  speak  out 
The  true  name  of  his  crime!  Remember  too, 
We  stand  not  yet  so  wholly  unprotected. 
Counts  Altringer  and  Galas  have  maintained 
Their  little  army  faithful  to  its  duty, 
And  daily  it  becomes  more  numerous. 
Nor  can  he  take  us  by  surprise :  you  know, 
I  hold  him  all  encompassed  by  my  listeners. 
Whate'er  he  does,  is  miuo,  even  while  'tis  doing — 
No  step  so  small,  but  instantly  I  hear  it ; 
Yea,  his  own  mouth  discloses  it. 


264  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Ques.  'Tis  quite 

Incomprehensible,  that  he  detects  not 
The  foe  so  near ! 

Oct.  Beware,  you  do  not  think, 

That  I  by  lying  arts,  and  complaisant 
Hypocrisy,  have  skulked  into  his  graces  : 
Or  with  the  sustenance  of  smooth  professions 
Nourish  his  all-confiding  friendship!  No—- 
Compelled alike  by  prudence,  and  that  duty 
Which  we  all  owe  our  country,  and  our  sovereign, 
To  hide  my  genuine  feelings  from  him,  yet 
Ne'er  have  I  duped  him  with  base  counterfeits! 

Ques.  It  is  the  visible  ordinance  of  heaven. 

Oct.  I  know  not  what  it  is  that  so  attracts 
And  links  him  both  to  me  and  to  my  son. 
Comrades  and  friends  we  always  were — long  habit, 
Adventurous  deeds  performed  in  company, 
And  all  those  many  and  various  incidents 
Which  store  a  soldier's  memory  with  affections, 
Had  bound  us  long  and  early  to  each  other — 
Yet  I  can  name  the  day,  when  all  at  once 
His  heart  rose  on  me,  and  his  confidence 
Shot  out  in  sudden  growth.    It  was  the  morning 
Before  the  memorable  fight  nt  Liitzner. 
Urged  by  an  ugly  dr'bam,  I  sought  him  out, 
To  press  him  to  accept  another  charger. 
At  distance  from  the  tents,  beneath  a  tree, 
I  found  him  iu  a  sleep.     When  I  had  waked  him, 
And  had  related  all  my  bodings  to  him, 
Long  time  he  stared  upon  me,  like  a  man 
Astounded;  thereon  fell  upon  my  neck, 
And  manifested  to  me  an  emotion 
That  far  outstripped  the  worth  of  that  small  service. 
Since  then  his  confidence  has  followed  me 
With  the  same  pace  that  mine  has  fled  from  him. 

Qnes.  You  lead  your  son  into  the  secret  I 

Oct.  No ! 

Qucs.  What  ?  and  not  warn  him  either  what  bad  li.-nnl  < 
His  lot  has  placed  him  in  f 

Oct.  I  must  perforce 

Leave  him  in  wardship  to  his  innocence. 
His  young  and  open  soul — dissimulation 
Is  foreign  to  its  habits !  Ignorance 
Alone  can  keep  alive  tho  cheerful  air, 
The  unembarrassed  sense  and  light  free  spirit, 
That  make  the  Duke  secure.  [deem 

Ques.  (anxiously.)  My  honoured  friend!  most  highly  do  I 

Of  Colonel  Piccolomini — yet — if 

Reflect  a  little 

Oct.  I  must  venture  it. 

Hush  ! — There  lie  comes  I 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  265 


SCENE  IV.— MAX.  PICCOLOMIXI,  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI, 

QUESTENBERG. 

Max.  Ha!  there  he  is  himself.    Welcome,  my  father! 

[He  embraces  his  father.     As  he  turns  round,  he  ob- 
serves QUESTENBERG,  and  draws  back  with  a 
cold  and  reserved  air. 
You  are  engaged,  I  see.    I'll  not  disturb  you. 

Oct.  How,  Max.  ?    Look  closer  at  this  visitor. 
Attention,  Max.,  an  old  friend  merits — Reverence 
Belongs  of  right  to  the  envoy  of  your  sovereign,  [with  you 
Max.  (drily.)  Von  Questenberg!—  Welcome — if  you  bring 
Aught  good  to  our  head  quarters. 

Ques.  (seizing  his  hand.)  Nay,  draw  not 

Your  hand  away,  Count  Piccolomini ! 
Not  on  my  own  account  alone  I  seized  it, 
And  nothing  common  will  I  say  therewith. 

[Taking  the  hands  of  both. 
Octavio — Max.  Piccolomini! 

0  saviour  names,  and  full  of  happy  omen ! 

Ne'er  will  her  prosperous  genius  turn  from  Austria, 
While  two  such  stars,  with  blessed  influences 
Beaming  protection,  shine  above  her  hosts. 

Max.  Heh! — Noble  minister!    You  miss  your  part. 
You  came  not  here  to  act  a  panegyric. 
You're  sent,  I  know,  to  find  fault  and  to  scold  us — 

1  must  not  be  beforehand  with  my  comrades.       [not  quite 

Octavio.  (to  MAX.)  He  comes  from  court,  where  people  are 
So  well  contented  with  the  duke,  as  here. 

Max.  What  now  have  they  contrived  to  find  out  in  him? 
That  he  alone  determines  for  himself 
What  he  himself  alone  doth  understand? 
Well,  therein  he  does  right,  and  will  persist  iu't. 
Heaven  never  meant  him  for  that  passive  thing 
That  can  be  struck  and  hammered  out  to  suit 
Another's  taste  and  fancy.    He'll  not  dance 
To  every  tune  of  every  minister. 
It  goes  against  his  nature — he  can't  do  it. 
He  is  possessed  by  a  commanding  spirit, 
And  his  too  is  the  station  of  command. 
And  well  for  us  it  is  so !    There  exist 
Few  fit  to  rule  themselves,  but  few  that  use 
Their  intellects  intelligently.— Then 
Well  for  the  whole,  if  there  be  found  a  man, 
Who  makes  himself  what  nature  destined  him, 
The  pause,  the  central  point  to  thousand  thousands — 
Stands  fixed  and  stately,  like  a  firm-built  column, 
Where  all  may  press  with  joy  and  confidence. 
Now  such  a  man  is  Wallenstein;  and  if 
Another  better  suits  the  court — ro  other 
But  such  a  one  as  he  can  serve  the  army. 

£ 


266  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Qites.  The  army  ?  Doubtless ! 

Oct.  (to  QUESTENBERG.)  Hush !  Suppress  it,  friend! 

Unless  some  end  were  answered  by  the  utterance. — 
Of  him  there  you'll  make  nothing. 

Max.  (continuing.)  In  their  distress 

They  call  a  spirit  up,  and  when  he  comes, 
Straight  their  flesh  creeps  and  quivers,  and  they  dread  him 
More  than  the  ills  for  which  they  called  him  up. 
The  uncommon,  the  sublime,  must  seem  and  be 
Like  things  of  every  day. — But  in  the  field, 
Aye,  there  the  Present  Being  makes  itself  felt. 
The  personal  must  command,  the  actual  eye 
Examine.    If  to  be  the  chieftain  asks 
All  that  is  great  in  nature,  let  it  be 
Likewise  his  privilege  to  move  and  act 
In  all  the  correspondencies  of  greatness. 
The  oracle  within  him,  that  which  lives, 
He  must  invoke  and  question— not  dead  books, 
Not  ordinances,  not  mould-rotted  papers. 

Oct.  My  son!  of  those  old  narrow  ordinances 
Let  us  not  hold  too  lightly.    They  are  weights 
Of  priceless  value,  which  oppressed  mankind 
Tied  to  the  volatile  will  of  their  oppressors. 
For"  always  formidable  was  the  league 
And  partnership  of  free  power  with  free  will. 
The  way  of  ancient  ordinance,  though  it  winds, 
Is  yet  no  devious  way.     Straight  forward  goes 
The  lightning's  path,  and  straight  the  fearful  path 
Of  the  cannon-ball.     Direct  it  flies  and  rapid. 
Shattering  that  it  may  reach,  and  shattering  what  it  reaches. 
My  son !  the  road,  the  human  being  travels, 
That,  on  which  BLESSING  comes  and  goes,  doth  follow 
The  river's  course,  the  valley's  playful  windings, 
Curves  round  the  corn-field  and  the  hill  of  vines, 
Honouring  the  holy  bounds  of  property  ! 
And  thus  secure,  though  late,  leads  to  its  end. 

Qucs.  O  hear  your  father,  noble  youth !  hear  Aim, 
Who  is  at  once  the  hero  and  the  man. 

Oct.  My  son,  the  nursling  of  the  camp  spoke  in  thee ! 
A  war  of  fifteen  years 
Hath  been  thy  education  and  thy  school. 
Peace  hast  thou  never  witnessed !     There  exists 
An  higher  than  the  Warner's  excellence. 
In  war  itself  war  is  no  ultimate  purpose. 
The  vast  and  sudden  deeds  of  violence, 
Adventures  wild,  and  wonders  of  the  moment, 
These  are  not  they,  my  son,  that  generate 
The  Calm,  the  Blissful,  and  the  enduring  Mighty 
Lo  there!  the  soldier,  rapid  architect! 
Builds  his  light  town  of  canvas,  and  at  once 
The  whole  scene  moves  and  bustles  momently, 
With  arms,  and  neighing  steeds,  and  mirth  and  quarrel 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTE1X.  267 

The  motley  market  fills ;  the  roads,  the  streams 

Are  crowded  with  new  freights,  trade  stirs  and  hurries ! 

But  on  some  morrow  moru,  all  suddenly, 

The  tents  drop  down,  the  horde  renews  its  march. 

Dreary,  and  solitary  as  a  church-yard 

The  meadow  and  down-trodden  seed-plot  lie, 

And  the  year's  harvest  is  gone  utterly. 

Max.  O  let  the  Emperor  make  peace,  my  father ! 
Most  gladly  would  I  give  the  blood-stained  laurel 
For  the  first  violet*  of  the  leafless  spring, 
Plucked  in  those  quiet  fields  where  I  have, journeyed ! 

Oct.  What  ails  thee  ?  What  so  moves  theo  all  at  once  ? 

Max.  Peace  have  I  ne'er  beheld  ?  I  have  beheld  it. 
From  thence  am  I  come  hither:  O !  that  sight, 
It  glimmers  still  before  me,  like  some  landscape 
Left  in  the  distance, — some  delicious  landscape ! 
My  road  conducted  me  through  countries  where 
The  war  has  not  yet  reached.     Life,  life,  my  father— 
My  venerable  father,  Life  has  charms 
WThich  we  have  ne'er  experienced.    We  have  been 
But  voyaging  along  its  barren  coasts, 
Like  some  poor  ever-roaming  horde  of  pirates, 
That,  crowded  in  the  rank  and  narrow  ship, 
House  on  the  wild  sea  with  wild  usages, 
Nor  know  aught  of  the  main  land,  but  the  bays 
Where  safeliest  they  may  venture  a  thieves'  landing. 
Whate'er  in  the  inland  dales  the  land  conceals 
Of  fair  and  exquisite,  O  !  nothing,  nothing, 
Do  we  behold  of  that  in  our  rude  voyage. 

Oct.  (attentive,  with  an  appearance  of  uneasiness.)  And  so 
your  journey  has  revealed  this  to  you? 

Max.  'Twas  the  first  leisure  of  my  life.     O  tell  me, 
What  is  the  meed  and  purpose  of  the  toil,  . 
The  painful  toil,  which  robbed  me  of  my  youth, 
Lcfb  me  an  heart  unsoul'd  and  solitary, 
A  spirit  uninformed,  unornamented. 
For  the  camp's  stir  and  crowd  and  ceaseless  'larum, 
The  neighing  war-horse,  the  air-shattering  trumpet, 
The  unvaried,  still-returning  hour  of  duty, 
Word  of  command,  and  exercise  of  arms — 
There's  nothing  here,  there's  nothing  in  all  this 
To  satisfy  the  heart,  the  gasping  heart ! 
Mere  bustling  nothingness,  where  the  soul  is  not — 
This  cannot  be  the  sole  felicity, 
These  cannot  be  man's  best  and  only  pleasures ! 

Oct.  Much  hast  thou  learnt,  my  son,  in  this  short  journey. 

Max.  O !  day  thrice  lovely !  when  at  length  the  soldier 

*  In  the  original, 

Den  blutgen  Lorbeer  geb  ich  hin  mit  Freuden 
Fiirs  erste  Veilchen,  das  derMSrs  uns  bringt, 
Das  duftige  Pfand  der  neuverjtingten  Erde. 


268  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Returns  home  into  life  ;  when  he  becomes 

A  fellow-man  among  his  fellow-men. 

The  colours  are  unfurled,  the  cavalcade 

Marshals,  and  now  the  buzz  is  hushed,  and  hark ! 

Now  the  soft  peace-march  beats,  home,  brothers,  home ! 

The  caps  and  helmets  are  all  garlanded 

With  green  boughs,  the  last  plundering  of  the  fields. 

The  city  gates  fly  open  of  themselves, 

They  need  no  longer  the  petard  to  tear  them. 

The  ramparts  are  all  tilled  with  men  and  women, 

With  peaceful  men  and  women,  that  send  onwards 

Kisses  and  welcomings  upon  the  air, 

WThich  they  make  breezy  with  affectionate  gestures. 

From  all  the  towers  rings  out  the  merry  peal, 

The  joyous  vespers  of  a  bloody  day. 

0  happy  man,  O  fortunate!   for  whom 

The  well-known  door,  the  faithful  arms  are  open, 
The  faithful  tender  arms  with  mute  embracing. 

Ques.  (apparently  much  affected.)  O!  that  you  should  speak 
Of  such  a  distant,  distant  time,  and  not 
Of  the  to-morrow,  not  of  this  to-day. 

Max.    (turning  round  to  him,  quick  and  vehement.)   Where 
lies  the  fault  but  on  you  in  Vienna? 

1  will  deal  openly  with  you,  Questenberg. 
Just  now,  as  first  I  saw  you  standing  here, 
(I'll  own  it  to  you  freely)  indignation 
Crowded  and  pressed  my  inmost  soul  together. 
'Tis  ye  that  hinder  peace,  ye! — and  the  warrior, 
It  is  the  warrior  that  must  force  it  from  you. 
Ye  fret  the  General's  life  out,  blacken  him, 
Hold  him  up  as  a  rebel,  and  Heaven  knows 

What  else  still  worse,  because  he  spares  the  Saxons, 

And  tries  to  awaken  confidence  in  the  enemy  ; 

Which  yet's  the  only  way  to  peace:  for  if 

War  intermit  not  during  war,  how  then 

And  whence  can  peace  come  ? — Your  own  plagues  fall  on  you  ! 

Even  as  I  love  what's  virtuous,  hate  I  you. 

And  here  make  I  this  vow,  here  pledge  myself; 

My  blood  shall  spurt  out  for  this  Wallenstcin, 

And  my  heart  drain  off,  drop  by  drop,  ere  yo 

Shall  revel  and  dance  jubilee  o'er  his  ruin.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V. — QUESTENBEI^G,  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI. 

Ques.  Alas,  alas !  and  stands  it  so  ? 

[Then  in  pressing  and  impatient  tones, 
What,  friend !  and  do  we  let  him  go  away 
In  this  delusion — let  him  go  away  If 
Not  call  him  back  immediately,  not  open 
His  eyes  upon  the  spot  ? 

Oct.  (recovering  himself  out  of  a  deep  study.)  He  has  now 
opened  mine. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  269 

And  I  see  more  than  pleases  me. 

Ques.  What  is  it  ? 

Oct.  Curse  on  this  journey  ! 

Ques.  But  why  so  ?    What  is  it? 

Oct.  Come,  come  along,  friend  !  I  must  follow  up 
The  ominous  track  immediately.    Mine  eyes 
Are  opened  now,  and  I  must  use  them.     Come  ! 

[Draws  QUESTENBERG  on  with  him. 

Ques.  What  now  ?     Where  go  you  then  f 

Oct.  To  her  herself. 

Ques.  To 

Oct.  ( interrupting  film,  and  correcting  himself.)  To  the  Duke. 

Come,  let  us  go — 'Tis  done,  'tis  done, 
I  see  the  net  that  is  thrown  over  him. 

0  !  he  returns  not  to  me  as  he  went. 
Ques.  Nay,  but  explain  yourself. 

Oct.  And  that  I  should  not 

Foresee  it,  not  prevent  this  journey  !    Wherefore 
Did  I  keep  it  from  him  ? — You  were  in  the  right. 

1  should  have  warned  him !    Now  it  is  too  late. 

Ques.  But  what's  too  late?    Bethink  yourself,  my  friend, 
That  you  are  talking  absolute  riddles  to  me. 
•  Oct.  (more  collected.)  JCome! — to  the  Duke's.    'Tis  close 

upon  the  hour 

Which  he  appointed  you  for  audience.     Come  ! 
A  curse,  a  threefold  curse,  upon  this  journey ! 

[He  .leads  QUESTENBERG  off. 

SCENE  VI. — Changes  to  a  spacious  chamber  in  the  house  of  the 
DUKE  OF  FRIEDLAND.  Servants  employed  in  putting  the 
tables  and  chairs  in  order.  During  this  enters  SENT,  like 
an  old  Italian  doctor,  in  black,  and  clothed  somewhat  fan- 
tastically. He  carries  a  white  staff,  with  which  he  marks 
out  the  quarters  of  the  heaven. 

1st  Ser.  Come — to  it  lads,  to  it!  Make  an  end  of  it.  I 
hear  the  sentry  call  out,  "  Stand  to  your  arms !"  They  will 
be  there  in  a  minute. 

2nd  Ser  Why  were  we  not  told  before  that  the  audience 
would  be  held  here  ?  Nothing  prepared — no  orders — no 
instructions 

3rd  Ser.  Ay.  and  why  was  the  balcony-chamber  counter- 
manded, that  with  the  great  worked  carpet? — there  one 
can  look  about  one. 

1st  Ser.  Nay,  that  you  must  ask  the  mathematician  there. 
He  says  it  is  an  unlucky  chamber. 

^nd  Ser.  Poh !  stuff  and  nonsense !  That's  what  I  call  a 
hum.  A  chamber  is  a  chamber ;  what  much  can  the  place 
signify  in  the  affair  ? 

Seni.  (u-ilh  gravity.)  My  son,  there's  nothing  insignificant, 
Nothing  !     But  yet  in  every  earthly  thing 
First  and  most  principal  is  place  and  time. 


270  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

1st  Ser.  (to  the  Second.)  Say  nothing  to  him,  Nat.    The 
Duke  himself  must  let  him  have  his  own  will. 

Seni.  (counts  the  chairs,  half  in  a  loud,  half  in  a  low  voice, 
tiJl  he  comes  to  eleven,  which  he  repeats.)  Eleven  !  an  evil 
numher!  Set  twelve  chairs. 

Twelve!  twelve  signs  hath  the  zodiac:  five  and  seven, 
The  holy  numbers,  include  themselves  in  twelve. 

2nd  Ser.  And   what  may  you  have  to    object  against 
eleven?    I  should  like  to  know  that  now. 

Seni.  Eleven  is — transgression;  eleven  oversteps 
The  ten  commandments.  [number? 

2nd  Ser.  That's  good!  and  why  do  you  call  five  an  holy 
Seni.  Five  is  the  soul  of  man  :  for  even  as  man 
Is  mingled  up  of  good  and  evil,  so 
The  five  is  the  first  number  that's  made  up 
Of  even  and  odd. 

2nd  Ser.  The  foolish  old  coxcomb ! 

1st  Ser.  Ey !  let  him  alone  though.     I  like  to  hear  him  ; 
there  is  more  in  his  words  than  can  be  seen  at  first  sight. 
3rd  Ser.    Off!    They  come. 
2nd  Ser.  There !     Out  at  the  side-door. 

[They  hurry  off.  SENI  follows  slowly.  A  Page  brings 
the  staff  of  command  on  a  red  cushion,  and  places  it  on 
the  table  near  the  DUKE'S  chair.  They  arc  announced 
from  without,  and  the  wings  of  the  door  Jly  open. 


SCENE  VII. — WALLENSTEIN,  DUCHESS. 

Wai.  You  went  then  through  Vienna,  were  presented 
To  tbe  Queen  of  Hungary  ? 

Vuch.  Yes  ?  and  to  the  Empress  too, 

And  by  both  Majesties  were  we  admitted 
To  kiss  the  hand. 

Wai.  And  how  was  it  received, 

That  I  had  sent  for  wife  and  daughter  hither 
To  the  camp,  in  winter  time  I 

Duck.  I  did  even  that 

Which  you  commissioned  me  to  do.    1  told  them, 
You  had  determined  on  our  daughter's  marriage, 
And  wished,  ere  yet  you  went  into  the  field, 
To  shew  the  elected  husband  his  betrothed. 

Wai.  And  did  they  guess  the  choice  which  I  had  made  ? 

Dvch.  They  only  hoped  and  wished  it  may  have  fallen 
Upon  no  foreign  nor  yet  Lritheran  noble. 

}\'al.  And  you — what  do  you  wish,  Elizabeth  ? 

Duch.  Your  will,  you  know,  was  always  mine. 

Wai.  (after  a  pause. )  Well  then  f 

And  in  all  else,  of  what  kind  and  complexion 
Was  your  reception  at  the  court  ? 

[The.  DUCHESS  casts  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  remains  silent. 
Hide  nothing  from  me.    How  were  you  received  f 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  271 

Duch.  O  !  iny  dear  lord,  all  is  not  what  it  was. 
A  cankerworm,  my  lord,  a  cankerwonn 
Has  stolen  into  the  bud. 

Wai.  Ay !  is  it  so  ? 

What,  they  were  lax?  they  failed  of  the  old  respect? 

Duch.  Not  of  respect.     No  honours  were  omitted, 
No  outward  courtesy ;  but  in  the  place 
Of  condescending,  confidential  kindness, 
Familiar  and  endearing,  there  were  given  me 
Only  these  honors  and  that  solemn  courtesy. 
Ah!  and  the  tenderness  which  was  put  on, 
It  was  the  guise  of  pity,  not  of  favour. 
No!     Albrecht's  wife,  Duke  Albrecht's  princely  wife, 
Count  Harrach's  noble  daughter,  should  not  so — 
Not  wholly  so  should  she  have  been  received. 

Wai.  Yes,  yes ;  they  have  ta'en  offence.  My  latest  conduct, 
They  railed  at  it,  no  doubt. 

Duch..  O  that  they  had! 

I  have  been  long  accustomed  to  defend  you, 
To  heal  and  pacify  distempered  spirits. 
No;  no  one  railed  at  you.    They  wrapped  them  up, 
O  Heaven!  in  such  oppressive,  solemn  silence! — 
Here  is  no  every-day  misunderstanding, 
No  transient  pique,  no  cloud  that  passes  over ; 
Something  most  luckless,  most  unhcalable, 
Has  taken  place.     The  Queen  of  Hungary 
Used  formerly  to  call  me  her  dear  aunt, 
And  ever  at  departure  to  embrace  ine — 

Wai.  Now  she  omitted  it  ?  [brace  me, 

Duck,  (wiping  away  her  tears,  after  a  pause.)  She  did  ein- 
But  then  first  when  I  had  already  taken 
My  formal  leave,  and  when  the  door  already 
Had  closed  upon  me,  then  did  she  come  out 
In  haste,  as  she  had  suddenly  bethought  herself, 
And  pressed  me  to  her  bosom,  more  with  anguish 
Than  tenderness.  [self. 

Wai.  (seizes  her  hand  soothingly.)  Nay,  now  collect  your- 
And  what  of  Eggenberg  and  Lichtenstein, 
And  of  our  other  friends  there  ? 

Duch.  (shaking  her  head.)  I  saw  none. 

Wai.  The  Ambassador  from  Spain,  who  once  was  wont 
To  plead  so  warmly  for  me  f — 

Duch.  Silent,  silent! 

Wai.  These  suns  then  are  eclipsed  for  us.    Henceforward 
Must  we  roll  on,  our  own  fire,  our  own  light. 

Duch.  And  were  it — were  it,  my  dear  lord,  in  that 
Which  moved  about  the  court  in  buzz  and  whisper,. 
But  in  the  country  let  itself  be  heard 
Aloud— in  that  which  Father  Larnormain 
In  sundry  hints  and 

Wai.  (eagerly.)  Lamormain  !  what  said  he? 

Duch.  That  you're  accused  of  having  daringly 


272  THE  PICCOLOMIXI,  OR  THE 

Overstepped  the  powers  entrusted  to  yon,  charged 

With  traitorous  contempt  of  the  Emperor 

And  his  supreme  behests.     The  proud  Bavarian, 

He  and  the  Spaniards  stand  up  your  accusers — 

That  there's  a  storm  collecting  over  you 

Of  far  more  fearful  menace  than  that  former  one 

Which  whirled  you  headlong  down  at  Regensburg.  [emotion. 

And   people  talk,  said  he,   of Ah! —    {.Stifling  extreme 

Wai.  Proceed ! 

Duck.  I  cannot  utter  it ! 

Wai.  Proceed ! 

Duck.  They  talk 

Wai.  Well! 

Duch.        Of  a  second [Catches  her  voice  and  hesitates. 

Wai.  Second 

Ducn.  More  disgraceful 

• Dismission. 

Wai.  Talk  they  ? 

[Strides  across  the  chamber  in  vehement  agitation. 

O  !  they  force,  they  thrust  me 
With  violence,  against  my  own  will,  onward! 

Duch.  (presses  near  to  him,  in  entreaty.)  O  !  if  there  yet  be 

time,  my  husband  !  if 
By  giving  way  and  by  submission,  this 
Ciin  be  averted-  my  dear  lord,  give  way! 
Win  down  your  proud  heart  to  it !    Tell  that  heart, 
It  is  your  sovereign  lord,  your  Emperor 
Before  whom  you  retreat.    O  let  no  longer 
Low  tricking  malice  blacken  your  good  meaning 
With  abhorred  venomous  glosses.     Stand  you  up 
Shielded  and  heliu'd  and  weapon'd  with  the  truth, 
And  drive  before  you  into  uttermost  shame 
These  slanderous  liars!    Few  firm  friends  have  we,— 
You  know  it !— The  swift  growth  of  our  good  fortune 
It  hath  but  set  us  up,  a  mark  for  hatred. 
What  are  we,  if  the  sovereign's  grace  and  favour 
Stand  not  before  us ! 

SCENE  VIII.— Enter  the  COUNTESS  TERTSKY,  leading  in  her 
hand  the  PRINCESS  THEKLA,  richly  adorned  with  brilliants. 

COUNTESS,  THEKLA,  WALLENSTEIN,  DUCHESS. 

Coun.  How,  sister  ?    What  already  upon  business, 

[  Observing  the  countenance  of  the  DUCHESS. 
And  business  of  no  pleasing  kind  I  see, 
Ere  he  has  gladdened  at  his  child.     The  first 
Moment  belongs  to  joy.     Here,  Friedland !  father ! 
This  is  thy  daughter. 

[THEKLA  approaches  with  a  shy  and  timid  air,  and  lends 
herself  as  about  to  hiss  his  hand.  He  receives  her  in 
his  anns,  and  remains  standing  for  some  time  lost  in 
the  feeling  of  her  presence. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  273 

Wai.  Yes!  pure  and  lovely  hath  hope  risen  on  me  : 
I  take  her  as  the  pledge  of  greater  fortune. 

Duch.    'Twas  but  a,  little  child  when  you  departed 
To  raise  up  that  great  army  for  the  Emperor: 
And  after,  at  the  close  of  the  campaign, 
When  you  returned  home  out  of  Pomerania, 
Your  daughter  was  already  in  the  convent, 
Wherein  she  has  reniaiu'd  till  now. 

Wai.  The  while 

Wo  in  the  field  here  gave  our  cares  and  toils 
To  make  her  great,  and  fight  her  a  free  way 
To  the  loftiest  earthly  good  ;  lo !  mother  Nature 
Within  the  peaceful  silent  convent  walls 
Has  done  her  part,  and  out  of  her  free  grace 
Hath  she  bestowed  on  the  beloved  child 
The  godlike ;  and  now  leads  her  thus  adorned 
To  meet  her  splendid  fortune,  and  my  hope. 

Duch.  (to  THEKLA.)  Thou  wouldest  not  have  recognized 

thy  father, 

Wouldst  thoit,  my  child  ?    She  counted  scarce  eight  years, 
When  last  she  saw  your  face. 

Thek.  O  yes,  yes,  mother! 

At  the  first  glance ! — My  father  is  not  altered. 
The  form,  that  stands  before  me,  falsifies 
No  feature  of  the  image  that  hath  lived 
So  long  within  me! 

Wai.  The  voice  of  my  child !     [  Then  after  a  pauset 

1  was  indignant  at  my  destiny 
That  it  denied  me  a  man-child  to  be 
Heir  of  my  name  and  of  my  prosperous  fortune, 
And  re-illume  my  soon  extinguished  being 
In  a  proud  line  of  princes. 
I  wronged  my  destiny.     Here  upon  this  head 
So  lovely  in  its  maiden  bloom  will  I 
Let  fall  the  garland  of  a  life  of  war, 
Nor  deem  it  lost,  if  only  I  can  wreath  it 
Transmitted  to  a  regal  ornament, 
Around  these  beauteous  brows. 

[He  clasps  her  in  his  arms  as  PICCOLO  MINI  enters. 


SCENE  IX. — Enter  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI,  and  some  time  after 
Count  TERTSKY,  the  others  remaining  as  before. 

Coun.  There  comes  the  Paladin  who  protected  us. 

Wai.  Max. !  Welcome,  ever  welcome !  Always  wert  thou 
The  morning  star  of  my  best  joys ! 

Max.  My  General 

Wai.  'Till  now  it  was  the  Emperor  who  rewarded  thee, 
I  but  the  instrument.     This  day  thou  hast  bound 
The  father  to  thee,  Max. !  the  fortunate  father, 
And  this  debt  Friedland's  self  must  pay. 
L* 


274  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OB  THE 

Max.  My  prince ! 

You  made  no  common  hurry  to  transfer  it. 
I  come  with  shame :  yea,  not  without  a  pang! 
For  scarce  have  I  arrived  here,  scarce  delivered 
The  mother  and  the  daughter  to  your  arms, 
But  there  is  brought  to  me  from  your  equerry 
A  splendid  richly-plated  hunting  dress 

So  to  remunerate  me  for  my  troubles 

Yes,  yes,  remunerate  me!  Since  a  trouble 
It  must  be,  a  mere  office,  not  a  favour 
Which  I  leapt  forward  to  receive,  and  which 
I  came  already  with  full  heart  to  thank  you  for. 
No !  'twas  not  so  intended,  that  my  business 
Should  be  my  highest  best  good  fortune  ! 

[TERTSKYV enters,  and  delivers  letters  to  the  DUKE, 

which  he  breaks  open  hurryiiiyly. 

Conn,  (to  MAX.)  Remunerate  your  trouble!    For  his  joy 
He  makes  you  recompense.    'Tis  not  unfitting 
For  you,  Count  Piccoloinini,  to  feel 
So  tenderly — my  brother  it  beseems 
To  shew  himself  for  ever  great  and  princely. 

Thek.  Then  I  too  must  have  scruples  of  his  love  : 
For  his  munificent  hands  did  ornament  me 
Ere  yet  the  father's  heart  had  spoken  to  me. 
Max.  Yes;  'tis  his  nature  ever  to  be  giving 
And  making  happy. 

[He  grasps  the  hand  of  the  DUCHESS  with   still 
increasing  warmth. 

How  my  heart  pours  out 
Its  all  of  thanks  to  him:  O!  how  I  seem 
To  utter  all  things  in  the  dear  name  Friedland. 
While  I  shall  live,  so  long  will  I  remain 
The  captive  of  this  name :  in  it  shall  bloom 
My  every  fortune,  every  lovely  hope. 
Inextricably  as  in  some  magic  ring 
In  this  name  hath  my  destiny  charm-bound  inc ! 

Coun.  (ivho  during  this  time  has  been  anxiously  watching  the 
DUKE,  and  remarks  that  he  is  lost  in  thought  over  the 
letters.)  My  brother  wishes  us  to  leave  him.  Come. 
Wai.  (turns  himself  round  quick,  collects  himself,  and  speaks 
with  cheerfulness  to  the  DUCHESS.)  Once  more  I  bid 
thee  welcome  to  the  camp, 

Thou  art  the  hostess  of  this  court.     You,  Max., 
Will  now  again  administer  your  old  office, 
While  we  perform  the  sovereign's  business  here. 

[MAX.  PICCOLOMINI  offers  the  DUCHESS  his  arm, 

the  COUNTESS  accompanies  the  PRINCESS. 
Ter.  (calling  after  him.)  Max.,  we  depend  upon  seeing  you 
at  the  meeting. 


FIRST  TART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  275 


SCENE  X. — WALLENSTEIN,  Count  TERTSKY. 

Wai.  (in  deep  thought  to  himself. )     She  hath  seen  all  things 

as  they  are — It  is  so, 

And  squares  completely  with  my  other  notices. 
They  have  determined  finally  in  Vienna, 
Have  given  me  my  successor  already ; 
It  is  the  king  of  Hungary,  Ferdinand, 
The  Emperor's  delicate  son !  he's  now  their  saviour, 
He's  the  new  star  that's  rising  now  !    Of  us 
They  think  themselves  already  fairly  rid, 
And  as  we  were  deceased,  the  heir  already 
Is  entering  on  possession. — Therefore — dispatch' 

[As  he  turns  round  he  observes  TERTSKY,  and  gives  him  a  letter. 
Count  Altringer  will  have  himself  excused, 
And  Galas  too — I  like  not  this ! 

Ter.  And  if 

Thou  loiterest  longer,  all  will  fall  away, 
One  following  the  other. 

Wai.  Altringer 

Is  master  of  the  Tyrole  passes.    I  must  forthwith 
Send  some  ono  to  him,  that  he  let  not  in 
The  Spaniards  on  me  from  the  Milanese. 

Well,  and  the  old  Sesin,  that  ancient  trader 

In  contraband  negociations,  he 

Has  shown  himself  again  of  late.    What  brings  he 

From  the  Count  Thur  ? 

Ter.  The  Count  communicates, 

He  has  found  out  the  Swedish  chancellor 
At  Halberstadt,  where  the  convention's  held, 
Who  says,  you've  tired  him  out,  and  that  he'll  have 
No  further  dealings  with  you. 

Wai.  And  why  so  ? 

2er.  He  says,  you  are  never  in  earnest  in  your  speeches, 
That  you  decoy  the  Swedes — to  make  fools  of  them, 
Will  league  yourself  with  Saxony  against  them, 
And  at  last  make  yourself  a  riddance  of  them 
With  a  paltry  sum  of  money. 

Wai.  So  then,  doubtless, 

Yes,  doubtless,  this  same  modest  Swede  expects 
That  I  shall  yield  him  some  fair  German  tract 
For  his  prey  and  booty,  that  ourselves  at  last 
On  our  own  soil  and  native  territory, 
May  be  no  longer  our  own  lords  and  masters  ! 
An  excellent  scheme! — No,  no  !  They  must  be  off, 
Off,  off!  away !  we  want  no  such  neighbours. 

Ter.  Nay,  yield  them  up  that  dot,  that  speck  of  land — 
It  goes  not  from  your  portion.     If  you  win 
The  game,  what  matters  it  to  you  who  pays  it  ? 

Wai.  Off  with  them,  off!    Thou  understand'st  not  this. 
Never  shall  it  be  said  of  me,  I  parcelled 


276  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

My  native  land  away,  dismembered  Germany, 
Betrayed  it  to  a  foreigner,  in  order 
To  come  with  stealthy  tread,  and  filch  away 
My  own  share  of  the  plunder. — Never !  never ! — 
No  foreign  power  shall  strike  root  in  the  empire, 
And  least  of  all,  these  Goths !  these  hunger- wolves ! 
Who  send  such  envious,  hot  and  greedy  glances 
T' wards  the  rich  blessings  of  our  German  lands! 
I'll  have  their  aid  to  ca«t  and  draw  my  nets, 
But  not  a  single  fish  of  all  the  draught 
Shall  they  come  in  for. 

Ter.  You  will  deal,  however, 

More  fairly  with  the  Saxons  ?  They  lose  patience 
While  you  shift  ground  and  make  so  many  curves. 
Say,  to  what  purpose  all  these  masks  ?  Your  frienda 
Are  plunged  in  doubts,  baffled,  and  led  astray  in  you. 
There's  Oxenstein,  there's  Arnheim — neither  knows 
What  he  should  think  of  your  procrastinations. 
And  in  the  end  I  prove  the  liar ;  all 
Passes  through  me.     I  have  not  even  your  hand-writing. 

Wai.  I  never  give  my  hand-writing  ;  thon  knowest  it. 

Ter.  But  how  can  it  be  known  that  you're  in  earnest, 
If  the  act  follows  not  upon  the  word  ? 
You  must  yourself  acknowledge,  that  in  all 
Your  intercourses  hitherto  with  the  enemy 
You  might  have  done  with  safety  all  you  have  done, 
Had  you  meant  nothing  further  than  to  gull  him 
For  the  Emperor's  service. 

Wai.  (after   a  pause,  during  iclnch   lie  looks   narrowly  on 
TERTSKY.)  And  from  whence  dost  thou  know 

That  I'm  not  gulling  himforthe  Emperor's  service  / 
Whence  knowest  that  that  I'm  not  gulling  all  of  you  ? 
Dost  thou  know  me  so  well !    When  made  I  thee 
The  inteudant  of  my  secret  purposes  ? 
I  am  not  conscious  that  I  ever  open'd 
My  inmost  thoughts  to  thee.    The  Emperor,  it  is  true, 
Hath  dealt  with  me  amiss;  and  if  I  would, 
I  could  repay  him  with  usurious  interest 
For  the  evil  he  hath  done  me.     It  delights  me 
To  know  my  power  ;  but  whether  I  shall  use  it, 
Of  that,  I  should  have  thought  that  thou  couldst  speak 
No  wiselier  than  thy  fellows. 

Ter,  So  hast  thou  always  played  thy  game  with  us. 
Enter  ILLO. 

SCENE  XL— ILLO,  WALLENSTEIN.  TERTSKY. 

Wai.  How  stand  affairs  without?    Are  they  prepared t 
Wo.  You'll  find  them  in  the  very  mood  you  wish. 

They  know  about  the  Emperor's  requisitions, 

And  are  tumultuous. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  277 

Wai.  How  hath  Isolan 

Declared  himself? 

Illo.  He's  yours,  both  soul  and  body, 

Since  you  built  up  again  his  Faro-bank. 

Wai.  And  which  way  doth  Kolatto  bend  ?    Hast  thou 
Made  sure  of  Tiefenbach  and  Deodate  ? 

Illo.  What  Piccolomini  does,  that  they  do  too. 

Wai.  You  mean  then  I  may  venture  somewhat  with  them? 

Illo.  — If  you  are  assured  of  the  Piccolomini. 

Wai.  Not  more  assured  of  mine  own  self. 

Ter.  And  yet 

I  would  you  trusted  not  so  much  to  Octavio, 
The  fox ! 

Wai.  Thou  teachest  me  to  know  my  man  ? 
Sixteen  campaigns  I  have  made  with  that  old  warrior. 
Besides,  I  have  his  horoscope, 
We  both  are  born  beneath  like  stars — in  short 

[  With  an  air  of  mystery. 
To  this  belongs  its  own  particular  aspect, 
If  therefore  thou  canst  warrant  me  the  rest 

Illo.  There  is  among  them  all  but  this  one  voice, 
You  must  not  lay  down  the  command,  I  hear 
They  mean  to  send  a  deputation  to  you. 

Wai.  If  I'm  in  aught  to  bind  myself  to  them, 
They  too  must  bind  themselves  to  me. 

Illo.  Of  course. 

Wai.  Their  words  of  honour  they  must  give,  their  oaths, 
Give  them  in  writing  to  me,  promising 
Devotion  to  my  service  unconditional. 

Illo.  Why  not? 

Ter.  Devotion  unconditional? 

The  exception  of  their  duties  towards  Austria 
They'll  always  place  among  the  premises. 
With  this  reserve — — 

Wai.  (shaking  his  head.)    All  unconditional ! 
No  premises,  no  reserves. 

Illo.  A  thought  has  struck  me. 

Does  not  Count  Tertsky  give  us  a  set  banquet 
This  evening? 

Ter.  Yes ;  and  all  the  Generals 

Have  been  invited. 

Illo.  (to  WALLENSTEIN.)  Say,  will  you  here  fully 
Commission  me  to  use  my  own  discretion  ? 
I'll  gain  for  you  the  Generals'  words  of  honour, 
Even  as  you  wish. 

Wai.  Gain  me  their  signatures  I 

How  you  come  by  them,  that  is  your  concern. 

Illo.  And  if  I  bring  it  to  you,  black  on  white, 
That  all  the  leaders  who  are  present  here 
Give  themselves  up  to  you,  without  condition  ; 
Say,  will  you  then — then  will  you  shew  yourself 
In  earnest,  and  with  some  decisive  action 


278  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Make  trial  of  your  luck  ? 

Wai.  The  signatures! 

Gain  me  the  signatures. 

Hip.  Seize,  seize  the  hour 

Ere  it  slips  from  you.     Seldom  coines  the  moment 
In  life,  which  is  indeed  sublime  and  weighty. 
To  make  a  great  decision  possible, 
O  !  many  things,  all  transient  and  all  rapid, 
Must  meet  at  once :  and,  haply,  they  thus  met 
May  by  that  confluence  be  enforced  to  pause 
Time  long  enough  for  wisdom,  though  too  short, 
Far,  far  too  short  a  time  for  doubt  and  scruple  ! 
This  is  that  moment.     See,  our  army  chieftains, 
Our  best,  our  noblest,  are  assembled  round  you, 
Their  kinglike  leader !    On  your  nod  they  wait. 
The  single  threads,  which  here  your  prosperous  fortune 
Hath  woven  together  in  one  potent  web 
Instinct  with  destiny,  O  let  them  not 
Unravel  of  themselves.    If  you  permit 
These  chiefs  to  separate,  so  unanimous 
Bring  you  them  not  a  second  time  together. 
'Tis  the  high  tide  that  heaves  the  stranded  ship, 
And  every  individual's  spirit  waxes 
In  the  great  stream  of  multitudes.     Behold, 
They  are  still  here,  here  still !    But  soon  the  war 
Bursts  them  once  more  asunder,  and  iu  small 
Particular  anxieties  and  interests 
Scatters  their  spirit,  and  the  sympathy 
Of  each  man  with  the  whole.    lie,  who  to-day 
Forgets  himself,  forced  onward  with  the  stream, 
Will  become  sober,  seeing  but  himself, 
Feel  only  his  own  weakness,  and  with  speed 
AVill  face  about,  and  march  on  in  the  old 
High  road  of  duty,  the  old  broad-trodden  road, 
And  seek  but  to  make  shelter  iu  good  plight. 

Wai.  The  time  is  not  yet  come. 

Ter.  So  you  say  always. 

But  ivhcn  will  it  be  time  f 

Wai,  When  I  shall  say  it. 

I7/o.  You'll  wait  upon  the  stars,  and  on  their  hours, 
Till  the  earthly  hour  escapes  you.    O,  believe  me, 
In  your  own  bosom  are  your  destiny's  stars. 
Confidence  in  yourself,  prompt  resolution, 
This  is  your  VENUS!  and  the  sole  malignant, 
The  only  one  that  harmeth  you  is  DOUBT. 

Wai.  Thou  speakest  as  thou  understaud'st.    How  oft 
And  many  a  time  I've  told  thee,  Jupiter, 
That  lustrous  god,  was  setting  at  thy  birth. 
Thy  visual  power  subdues  no  mysteries  ; 
Mole  eyed,  thou  nuvyest  but  burrow  in  the  earth, 
Blind  as  that  subterrestrial,  who  with  wan, 
Lead-coloured  shine  lighted  theo  into  life. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  279 

The  common,  the  terrestrial,  thou  mayest  see, 
With  serviceable  cunning  knit  together 
The  nearest  with  the  nearest :  and  therein 
I  trust  thee  and  believe  thee  I  but  whatever 
Full  of  mysterious  import  Nature  weaves, 
And  fashions  in  the  depths — the  spirits  ladder, 
That  from  this  gross  and  visible  world  of  dust 
Even  to  the  starry  world,  with  thousand  rounds, 
Builds  itself  up ;  on  which  the  unseen  powers 
Move  up  and  down  on  heavenly  ministries — 
The  circles  in  the  circles,  that  approach 
The  central  sun  with  ever-narrowing  orbit — 
These  see  the  glance  alone,  the  unsealed  eye, 
Of  Jupiter's  glad  children  born  in  lustre. 

[He  tvalLs  across  the  chamber,  then  returns,  and  standing 

still,  proceeds. 

The  heavenly  constellations  make  not  merely 
The  day  and  nights,  summer  and  spring,  not  merely 
Signify  to  the  husbandman  the  seasons 
Of  sowing  and  of  harvest.    Human  action, 
That  is  the  seed  too  of  contingencies, 
Strewed  on  the  dark  land  of  futurity 
In  hopes  to  reconcile  the  powers  of  fate. 
Whence  it  behoves  us  to  seek  out  the  seed-time, 
To  watch  the  stars,  select  their  proper  hours, 
And  trace  with  searching  eye  the  heavenly  houses, 
Whether  the  enemy  of  growth  and  thriving 
Hide  himself  not,  malignant,  in  his  corner. 
Therefore  permit  me  my  own  time.     Meanwhile 
Do  you  your  part.    As  yet  I  cannot  say 
What  I  shall  do — only,  give  way  I  will  not. 
Depose  me  too  they  shall  not.    On  these  points 
You  may  rely. 

Page  (entering.}    My  Lords,  the  Generals. 

Wai.  Let  them  come  in. 

SCENE  XII.    WALLENSTEIN,  TERTSKY,  ILLO.— To  them  enter 

QUESTENBERG,  OCTAVIO,  and  MAX.  PlCCOLOMlNI,  BUT- 

LER,  ISOLANI,  MARADRAS,  and  three  other  Generals. 
WALLENSTKIN  motions  QUESTENBERG,  who  in  consequence 
takes  the  chair  directly  opposite  to  him;  the  others  follow, 
arranging  themselves  according  to  their  rank.  There  reigns 
a  momentary  silence. 
Wai.  I  have  understood,  'tis  true,  the  sum  and  import 

Of  your  instructions,  Questenberg,  have  weighed  them, 

And  formed  my  final,  absolute  resolve ; 

Yet  it  seems  fitting,  that  the  Generals 

Should  hear  the  will  of  the  Emperor  from  your  mouth, 

May't  please  you  then  to  open  your  commission 

Before  these  noble  Chieftains. 

Ques.  I  am  ready 

To  obey  you  ;  but  will  first  entreat  your  Highness, 


280  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

And  all  these  noble  Chieftains,  to  consider, 

The  Imperial  dignity  and  sovereign  right 

Speaks  from  my  mouth,  and  not  my  own  presumption. 

Wai.  We  excuse  all  preface. 

Ques.  When  his  Majesty 

The  Emperor  to  his  courageous  armies 
Presented  in  the  person  of  Duke  Friedland 
A  most  experienced  and  renowned  commander, 
Ho  did  it  in  glad  hope  and  confidence 
To  give  thereby  to  the  fortune  of  the  war 
A  rapid  and  auspicious  change.    The  onset 
Was  favourable  to  his  royal  wishes. 
Bohemia  was  delivered  from  the  Saxons, 
The  Swede's  career  of  conquest  checked!  These  lands 
Began  to  draw  breath  freely,  as  Duke  Friedland 
From  all  the  streams  of  Germany  forced  hither 
The  scattered  armies  of  the  enemy, 
Hither  invoked  as  round  one  magic  circle 
The  Rhinegrave,  Beruhard,  Banner,  Oxenstiru, 
Yea,  and  that  never-conquered  King  himself; 
Here  finally,  before  the  eye  of  Niirnberg, 
The  fearful  game  of  battle  to  decide. 

Wai.  May't  please  you  to  the  point. 

Qucs.  In  Nuruberg's  camp  the  Swedish  monarch  left 
His  fame— In  Liitzen's  plains  his  life.     But  who 
Stood  not  astounded,  when  victorious  Friedland 
After  this  day  of  triumph,  this  proud  day, 
Marched  towards  Bohemia  with  the  speed  of  flight, 
And  vanished  from  the  theatre  of  war  ; 
While  the  young  Weimar  hero  forced  his  way 
Into  Franconia,  to  the  Danuhe,  like 
Some  delving  winter-stream,  which,  where  it  rushes, 
Makes  its  own  channel;  with  such  sudden  speed 
He  marched,  and  now  at  once  'fore  Regenspurg 
Stood  to  the  affright  of  all  good  Catholic  Christians. 
Then  did  Bavaria  s  well-deserving  Prince 
Entreat  swift  aidauce  in  his  extreme  need  ; 
The  Emperor  sends  seven  horsemen  to  Duke  Friedland, 
Seven  horsemen  couriers  sent  he  with  the  entreaty  : 
He  superadds  his  own,  and  supplicates 
Where  as  the  sovereign  lord  he  can  command. 
In  vain  his  supplication  !  At  this  moment 
The  Duke  hears  only  his  old  hate  and  grudge, 
Barters  the  general  good  to  gratify 
Private  revenge — and  so  falls  Regenspurg. 

Wai.  Max.,  to  what  peiiod  of  the  war  alludes  he  I 
My  recollection  fails  me  here. 

Max.  He  means 

When  we  were  in  Silesia. 

Wai.  Ay!     Is  it  so  ? 

But  what  had  we  to  do  there  ? 

Max.  To  beat  out 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  281 

The  Swedes  and  Saxons  from  the  province. 

Wai.  True. 

In  that  description  which  the  Minister  gave 
I  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  whole  war. 
(To  QUESTENBEKG.)  Well,  but  proceed  a  little. 

Qucs.  Yes!  at  length 

Beside  the  river  Oder  did  the  Duke 
Assert  his  ancient  fame.     Upon  the  fields 
Of  Steiuau  did  the  Swedes  lay  down  their  arms, 
Subdued  without  a  blow.    And  here,  with  others, 
The  righteousness  of  Heaven  to  his  avenger 
Delivered  that  long-practised  stirrer-up 
Of  insurrection,  that  curse-laden  torch 
And  kiudler  of  this  ^uar,  Matthias  Thur. 
But  he  had  fallen  into  magnanimous  hands ; 
Instead  of  punishment  he  found  reward, 
And  with  rich  presents  did  the  Duke  dismiss 
The  arch-foe  of  his  Emperor. 

Wai.  (lanyhs.)  I  know, 

I  know  you  had  already  in  Vienna 
Your  windows  and  balconies  all  forestalled 
To  see  him  on  the  excutioner's  cart. 
I  might  have  lost  the  battle,  lost  it  too 
With  infamy,  and  still  retained  your  graces — 
But,  to  have  cheated  them  of  a  spectacle, 
Oh  !  that  the  good  folks  of  Vienna  never, 
No,  never  can  forgive  me. 

Ques.  So  Silesia 

Was  freed,  and  all  things  loudly  called  the  Duke 
Into  Bavaria,  now  pressed  hard  on  all  sides. 
And  he  did  put  his  troops  in.  motion:  slowly, 
Quite  at  his  ease,  and  by  the  longest  road 
He  traverses  Bohemia ;  but  ere  ever 
He  hath  once  seen  the  enemy,  faces  round, 
Breaks  up  the  march,  and  takes  to  winter  quarters. 

Wai.  The  troops  were  pitiably  destitute 
Of  every  necessary,  every  comfort. 
The  winter  came.     What  thinks  his  Majesty 
His  troops  are  made  of?  Ant  we  men  ?  subjected 
Like  other  men  to  wet,  and  cold,  and  all 
The  circumstances  of  necessity? 
O  miserable  lot  of  the  poor  soldier! 
Wherever  he  comes  in,  all  flee  before  him, 
And  when  he  goes  away,  the  general  curse 
Follows  him  on  his  route.    All  must  be  seized, 
Nothing  is  given  him.    And  compelled  to  seize 
From  every  man,  he's  every  man's  abhorrence. 
Behold,  here  stand  my  Generals..  Karaffu ! 
Count  Deodate  !  Butler !  Tell  this  man 
How  long  the  soldiers'  pay  is  iu  arrears. 

But.  Already  a  full  year. 

Wai.  And  'tis  the  hire 


282  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

That  constitutes  the  hireling's  namo  and  duties, 
The  soldier's  pay  is  the  soldier's  covenant* 

Qnes.  Ah !  this  is  a  far  other  tone  from  that 
In  which  the  Duke  spoke  eight,  nine  years  ago. 
Wai.  Yes!  'tis  my  fault,  I  know  it:  I  myself 
Have  spoilt  the  Emperor  by  indulging  him. 
Nine  years  ago,  during  the  Danish  war, 
I  raised  him  up  a  force,  a  mighty  force, 
Forty  or  fifty  thousand  men,  that  cost  him 
Of  his  own  purse  no  doit.    Through  Saxony 
The  fury  goddess  of  the  war  marched  on, 
E'en  to  the  surf-rocks  of  the  Baltic,  bearing 
The  terrors  of  his  name.     That  was  a  time 1 
In  the  whole  Imperial  realm  no  name  like  mine 
Honoured  with  festival  and  celebration — 
And  Albrecht  WALLENSTEIN,  it  was  the  title 
Of  the  third  jewel  in  his  crown! 
Hut  at  the  Diet,  when  the  Princes  met 
At  Regenspurg,  there,  there  the  whole  broke  out, 
There  'twas  laid  open,  there  it  was  made  known, 
Out  of  what  money-bag  I  had  paid  the  host. 
And  what  was  now  my  thank,  what  had  I  now, 
That  I,  a  faithful  servant  of  the  Sovereign, 
Had  loaded  on  myself  the  people's  curses, 
And  let  the  Princes  of  the  empire  pay 
The  expenses  of  this  war,  that  aggrandizes 
The  Emperor  alone — What  thanks  had  I ! 
What?  I  was  offered  up  to  their  complaints, 
Dismissed,  degraded ! 

QMS.  But  your  Higness  knows 

What  little  freedom  he  possessed  of  action 
In  that  disastrous  Diet. 

Wai  Death  and  hell ! 

/had  that  which  could  have  procured  him  freedom. 
No!  Since  'twas  proved  so  inauspicious  to  me 
To  serve  the  Emperor  at  the  empire's  cost, 
I  have  been  taught  far  other  trains  of  thinking 
Of  the  empire,  and  the  Diet  of  the  empire. 
From  the  Emperor,  doubtless,  I  received  this  staff, 
But  now  I  hold  it  as  the  empire's  general — 
For  the  common  weal,  the  universal  interest, 
And  no  more  for  that  one  man's  aggrandizement! 
But  to  the  point.    What  is  it  that's  desired  of  me  f 

Qucs.  First,  his  imperial  Majesty  hath  willed 
That  without  pretexts  of  delay  the  army 

*  The  original  is  not  translatable  into  English: 

Und  sein  sold 

Muss  dem  soldaten  warden,  darnach  heisst  er. 
It  might  perhaps  have  been  thus  rendered: 
"  And  that  for  which  lie  sold  his  services, 

The  soldier  must  receive." 
But  a  false  or  doubtful  etymology  is  no  more  than  a  dull  pun. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  283 

Evacuate  Bohemia. 

Wai.  In  this  season  ? 

And  to  what  quarter,  wills  the  Emperor, 
That  we  direct  our  course  f 

Qucs.  To  the  enemy.  • 

His  Majesty  resolves,  that  Regeiispurg 
Be  purified  from  the  enemy,  tre  Easter, 
That  Lutheranism  may  be  no  longer  preached 
In  that  cathedral,  nor  heretical 
Defilement  desecrate  the  celebration 
Of  that  pure  festival. 

Wai.  My  generals, 

Can  this  be  realized  ? 

IRo.  'Tis  not  possible. 

But.  It  can't  be  realized. 

Qiies.  The  Empero 

Already  hath  commanded  colonel  Suys 
To  advance  toward  Bavaria  ? 

Wai.  What  did  Suys  T 

Qucs.  That  which  his  duty  prompted.     He  advanced ! 

Wai.  What  ?  he  advanced  ?    And  I,  his  general, 
Had  given  him  orders,  peremptory  orders, 
Not  to  desert  his  station  !    Stands  it  thus 
With  my  authority  ?  Is  this  the  obedience 
Due  to  my  office,  which  being  thrown  aside 
No  war  can  be  conducted  ?  Chieftains,  speak ! 
You  be  the  judges,  generals!  What  deserves 
That  officer,  who  of  his  oath  neglectful 
Is  guilty  of  contempt  of  orders  f 

lUo.  Death. 

Wai.  (raising  his  voice,  as  all,  but  ILLO,  had  remained  silent, 
and  seemingly  scrupulous.)  Count  Piccolomini !  what 
has  he  deserved  ?  [law, 

Max.  (after  a  long  pause.)  According  to  the  letter  of  the 
Death. 

Iso.        Death. 

But  Death,  by  the  laws  of  war. 

[QuESTENBKRG  rises  from  his  seat,  WALLENSTEIN  fol- 
lows /  all  the  rest  rise. 

Wai.  To  this  the  law  condemns  him,  and  not  I. 
And  if  I  show  him  favour,  'twill  arise 
From  the  reverence  that  I  owe  my  Emperor. 

Qiies.  If  so,  I  can  say  nothing  further — here! 

Wai.  I  accepted  the  command  but  on  conditions ! 
And  this  the  first,  that  to  the  diminution 
Of  my  authority  no  human  being, 
Not  eVen  the  Emperor's  aelf,  should  be  entitled 
To  do  aught,  or  to  say  aught,  with  the  army. 
If  I  stand  warranter  of  the  event, 
Placing  my  honour  and  my  head  in  pledge, 
Needs  must  I  have  full  mastery  in  all 
The  means  thereto.     What  rendered  this  Gustavus 


284  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Resistless,  and  unconquered  upon  earth  ? 
Tliis— that  he  was  the  monarch  in  his  army  ? 
A  monarch,  one  who  is  indeed  a  monarch, 
Was  never  yet  subdued  but  by  his  equal. 
Bat  to  the  poiat !  The  best  is  yet  to  come. 
Attend  now,  generals ! 

Qiies.  The  prince  Cardinal 

Regius  his  route  at  the  approach  of  spring 
From  the  Milanese  ;  and  leads  a  Spanish  army 
Through  Germany  into  the  Netherlands. 
1'nat  he  may  march  secure  and  unimpeded, 
'Tis  the  Emperor's  will  you  grant  him  a  detachment 
Ol'  eight  horse-regiments  from  the  army  here. 

Wai.  Yes,  yes !  I  understand !— Eight  regiments !    Well, 
Right  well  concerted,  father  Lamormain  ! 
Eight  thousand  horse !  Yes,  yes !  'Tis  as  it  should  bo ! 
I  see  it  coming. 

Ques.  There  is  nothing  coming. 

All  stands  in  front :  the  counsel  of  state-prudence, 
The  dictate  of  necessity ! — 

\\'nl.  What  then? 

What,  my  Lord  Envoy  ?  May  I  not  be  suffered 
To  understand,  that  folks  are  tired  of  seeing 
The  sword's  hilt  in  my  grasp  :  and  that  your  court 
Snatch  eager1  y  at  this  pretence,  and  use 
The  Spanish  title  to  drain  off  my  forces, 
To  lead  into  the  empire  a  new  army 
Unsubjected  to  my  control.    To  throw  me 
Plmnply  aside,—  I  am  still  too  powerful  for  you 
To  venture  that.     My  stipulation  runs, 
That  all  the  Imperial  forces  shall  obey  me 
Where'er  the  German  is  the  native  language. 
Of  Spanish  troops  and  of  Prince  Cardinals 
That  take  their  route,  as  visitors,  through  the  empire 
There  stands  no  syllable  in  my  stipulation. 
No  syllable !    And  so  the  politic  court 
Steals  in  a  tiptoe,  and  creeps  round  behind  it; 
First  makes  me  weaker,  then  to  be  dispensed  with, 
Till  it  dares  strike  at  length  a  bolder  blow 
And  make  short  work  with  me.  I 

What  need  of  all  these  crooked  ways,  Lord  Envoy  I 
Straight-forward,  man !    His  compact  with  mo  pinches 
The  Emperor.     He  would  that  I  moved  off! — 

Well !— I  will  gratify  him ! 

[Here  there  commences  an  agitation  among  the  Generals 

which  incredxc8  continually. 
It  grieves  me  for  my  noble  officers?  sakes  ! 
I  see  not  yet,  by  what  means  they  will  come  at 
The  moneys  they  have  advanced,  or  how  obtain 
The  recompence  their  services  demand. 
Still  anew  leader  brings  new  claimants  forward, 
And  prior  merit  superannuates  quickly. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  285 

There  serve  here  many  foreigners  in  the  army, 

And  were  the  man  in  all  else  brave  and  gallant, 

I  was  not  wont  to  make  nice  scrutiny 

After  his  pedigree  or  catechism. 

This  will  be  otherwise,  i'  the  time  to  come. 

Well — me  no  longer  it  concerns.  [He  seats  himself, 

Max.  Forbid  it  Heaven,  that  it  should  come  to  this ! 
Our  troops  will  swell  in  dreadful  fermentation — 
Tho  Emperor  is  abused — it  cannot  be. 
Iso.  It  cannot  be;  all  goes  to  instant  wreck. 
Wai.  Thou  hast  said  truly,  faithful  Isolani ! 
What  we  with  toil  and  foresight  have  built  up, 
Will  go  to  wreck — all  go  to  instant  wreck. 
What  then  ?  another  chieftain  is  soon  found, 
Another  army  likewise  (who  dares  doubt  it  ?) 
Will  flock  from  all  sides  to  the  Emperor 
At  the  first  beat  of  his  recruiting  drum. 

[During  this  speech,  ISOLANI,  TERTSKY,  ILLO  and 

MARADAS  talk  confusedly  with  great  agitation. 
Max.  (busily  and  passionately  going  from  one  to  another,  and 
soothing  them.)   Hear,   my  commander!      Hear  me, 
generals ! 

Let  me  conjure  you,  Duke !   Determine  nothing, 
Till  we  have  met  and  represented  to  you 
Our  joint  remonstrances.  —Nay,  calmer !    Friends 
I  hope  all  may  be  yet  set  right  again. 

Ter.  Away  !  let  us  away !  in  the  antechamber 
Find  we  the  others.  [  They  go. 

But.  (to  QUESTENBERG.)   If  good  counsel  gain 
Due  audience  from  your  wisdom,  my  Lord  Envoy ! 
You  will  be  cautious  how  you  show  yourself 
In  public  for  some  hours  to  come— or  hardly 
Will  that  gold  key  protect  you  from  mal-treatment. 

[Commotions  heard  from  without. 

Wai.  A  salutary  counsel Thou,  Octavio ! 

Wilt  answer  for  the  safety  of  our  guest.  [speak. 

Farewell,  Von  Questenberg!         [QUESTENBERG  is  about  to 

Nay,  not  a  word. 

Not  one  word  more  of  that  detested  subject! 
You  have  performed  your  duty — We  know  how 
To  separate  the  office  from  the  man. 

[  As  QUESTENBERG  is  going  off  with  OCTAVIO;  GOETZ, 
TIEFENBACH,  KoLATTO  press  in ;  several  other 
Generals  following  them. 

Goetz.  Where's  he  who  means  to  rob  us  of  our  general  ? 
Tie.  (at  the  same  time.)  What  are  we  forced  to  hear? 

That  thou  wilt  leave  us  ? 
Kol.  (at the  same  time.)  We  will  live  with  thee,  we  will 

die  with  thee. 

Wai.  (ivith  stataliness,  and  pointing  to  ILLO.)     There!    the 

Field-Marshal  knows  our  will.  [Exit. 

[  While  nil  are  going  off  the  stage,  the  curtain  drops. 


28C  THE  PICCOLOMIXI,  OR  THE 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.— A  small  Chamber. 
ILLO  and  TERTSKY. 

Ter.  Now  for  this  evening's  business!     I  low  intend  you 
To  manage  with  the  generals  at  the  banquet  ? 

Illo.  Attend  !    We  frame  a  formal  declaration, 
Wherein  we  to  the  Dnke  consign  ourselves 
Collectively,  to  bo  and  to  remain 
Hi 8  both  with  life  and  limb,  and  not  to  spare 
The  last  drop  of  our  blood  for  him,  provided 
So  doing  we  infringe  no  oath  or  duty, 
We  may  be  under  to  the  Emperor. — Mark ! 
This  reservation  we  expressly  make 
In  a  particular  clause,  and  save  the  conscience. 
Now  hear!  This  formula  so  framed  and  worded 
Will  be  presented  to  them  for  perusal 
Before  the  Banquet.    No  one  will  find  in  it 
Cause  of  offence  or  scruple.     Hear  now  further 
After  the  feast,  when  now  the  vap'ring  wine 
Opens  the  heart,  and  shuts  the  eyes,  we  let 
A  counterfeited  paper,  in  the  which 
This  one  particular  clause  has  beeu  left  out, 
Go  round  for  signatures. 

Ter.  How  ?  think  you  then 

That  they'll  believe  themselves  bound  by  an  oath, 
Which  wo  had  tricked  them  into  by  a  juggle?  [then 

Illo.  We  shall  have  caught  and  caged  them  !    Let  them 
Beat  their  wings  bare  against  the  wires,  and  rave 
Loud  as  they  may  against  our  treachery, 
At  court  their  signatures  will  be  believed 
Far  more  than  their  most  holy  affirmations. 
Traitors  they  are,  and  must  be ;  therefore  wisely 
Will  make  a  virtue  of  necessity. 

Ter.  Well,  well,  it  shall  content  me ;  let  but  something 
Be  done,  let  only  some  decisive  blow 
Set  us  in  motion. 

Illo.  Besides,  'tis  of  subordinate  importance 
How,  or  how  far,  we  may  thereby  propel 
The  generals.    ?Tis  enough  that  we  persuade 
The  Duke,  that  they  are  his— Let  him  but  act 
In  his  determined  mood,  as  if  he  had  them, 
And  he  will  have  them.    Where  he  plunges  in, 
He  makes  a  whirlpool,  and  all  stream,  down  to  it. 

Ter.  His  policy  is  such  a  labyrinth, 
That  many  a  time  when  I  have  thought  myself 
I'loso  at  his  side,  he's  gone  at  once,  and  left  me 
Ignorant  of  the  ground  where  I  was  standing. 
He  lends  the  enemy  his  ear,  permits  me 
To  write  to  them,  to  Arnheini ;  to  Sesina 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  2H7 

Himself  comes  forward  blank  and  undisguised ; 
Talks  with  us  by  the  hour  about  his  plans, 

And  when  I  think  I  have  him — off  at  once 

He  has  slipped  from  me,  and  appears  as  if 
He  had  no  scheme,  but  to  retain  his  place. 

Illo.  He  give  up  his  old  plans!    I'll  tell  you,  friend ! 
His  soul  is  occupied  with  nothing  else, 
Even  in  his  sleep — They  are  his  thoughts,  his  dreams 
That  day  by  day  he  questions  for  this  purpose 
The  motions  of  the  planets 

Ter.  Ay !  you  know 

This  night,  that  is  now  coming,  he  with  SENI 
Shuts  himself  up  in  the  astrological  tower 
To  make  joint  observations — for  I  hear 
It  is  to  be  a  night  of  weight  and  crisis ; 
And  something  great,  and  of  long  expectation, 
Is  to  make  its  procession  in  the  heaven. 

Illo.  Come !  be  we  bold  and  make  dispatch.     The  work 
In  this  next  day  or  two  must  thrive  and  grow 
More  than  it  has  for  years.    And  let  but  only 

Things  first  turn  up  auspicious  here  below 

Mark  what  I  say — the  right  si  ars  too  will  show  themselves. 
Come,  to  the  generals.    All  is  in  the  glow, 
And  must  be  beaten  while  'tis  malleable. 

Ter.  Do  you  go  thither,  Illo.    I  must  stay 
And  wait  here  lor  the  Countess  Tertsky.    Know, 
That  we  too  are  not  idle.    Break  one  string, 
A  second  is  in  readiness. 

Illo.  Yes!   yes! 

I  saw  your  Lady  smile  with  such  sly  meaning. 
What  >s  in  the  wind  ? 

Ter.  A  secret.    Hush !  she  comes.     [Exit  ILLO. 

SCENE  II. — (The  COUNTESS  steps  out  from  a  closet.)    COUNT 
and  COUNTESS  TERTSKY. 

Ter.  Well — is  she  coming — I  can  keep  him  back 
No  longer. 

Coun.         She  will  be  there  instantly. 
You  only  send  him. 

Ter.  I  am  not  quite  certain 

I  must  confess  it,  Countess,  whether  or  not 
We  are  earning  the  Duke's  thanks  hereby.    You  know, 
No  ray  has  broke  out  from  him  on  this  point. 
You  have  o'er-rul'd  me,  and  yourself  know  best, 
How  far  you  dare  proceed. 

Coun,  I  take  it  on  me. 

[Talking  to  herself,  ivhile  she  is  advancing. 
Here 's  no  need  of  full  powers  and  commissions — 
My  cloudy  Duke !  we  understand  each  other — 
And  without  words.     What,  could  I  not  unriddle, 
Wherefore  the  daughter  should  be  sent  for  hither, 


288  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Why  first  he,  and  no  other,  should  be  chosen 

To  fetch  her  hither  ?  This  sham  cf  betrothing  her 

To  a  bridegroom,*  when  no  one  knows — No  !  no! 

This  may  blind  others !  I  see  through  thee,  Brother ! 
But  it  beseems  thee  not,  to  draw  a  card 
At  such  a  game.    Not  yet! — It  all  remains 

Mutely  delivered  up  to  my  finessing 

Well — thou  shalt  not  have  been  deceived,  Duke  Friedland ! 
In  her  who  is  thy  sister. 

Servant  (enters.)  The  commanders! 

Ter.  (to  the  COUNTESS.)  Take  care  you  heat  his  fancy  and 

aifectious — 

Possess  him  with  a  reverie,  and  send  him 
Absent  and  dreaming,  to  the  banquet ;  that 
He  may  not  boggle  at  the  signature. 

Coun.  Take  you careof  your  guests! — Go,  send  him  hither. 

Ter.  All  rests  upon  his  undersigning. 

Coun.  (interrupting  him.)  Go  to  your  guests!  Go 

Illo.  (comes  back.)  Where  art  staying,  Tertsky  ? 
The  house  is  full,  and  all  expecting  you. 

Ter.  Instantly  !  Instantly !    ( To  the  COUNTESS.)   And  let 

him  not 

Stay  here  too  long.    It  might  awake  suspicion 
In  the  old  man 

Coun.  A  truce  with  your  precautions  ! 

[Exeunt  TERTSKY  and  ILLO. 

SCENE  III.— COUNTESS,  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

Max.  (peeping  in  on  the  stage  shily.)  Aunt  Tertsky!  may  I 
venture?  [Advances  to  the  middle  of  the  stage,  and  looks 
around  him  with  uneasiness. 

She  's  not  here ! 
Where  is  she  T 

Coun.  Look  but  somewhat  narrowly 

In  yonder  corner,  lest  perhaps  she  lie 
Concealed  behind  that  screen. 
Max.  There  lie  her  gloves ! 

[Snatches  at  them,  but  the  COUNTESS  takes  them  herself. 
You  unkind  Lady !  You  refuse  me  this — 
You  make  it  an  amusement  to  torment  me. 

Coun.  And  this  the  thanks  you  give  me  for  my  trouble? 
Max.  O,  if  you  felt  the  oppression  at  mti  heart  ? 
Since  we've  been  here,  so  to  constrain  myself — 
With  such  poor  stealth  to  hazard  words  and  glances — 
These,  these  are  not  my  habits ! 

COMM.  You  have  still 

Many  new  habits  to  acquire,  young  friend ! 
But  on  this  proof  of  your  obedient  temper 
I  must  continue  to  insist ;  and  only 

*  In  Germany,  after  honourable  addresses  have  l>een  paid  and 
formally  accepted,  the  lovers  are  called  Bride  and  Bridegroom,  even 
though  the  marriage  should  uot  take  place  till  yt-urs  afterwards. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTE1N.  289 

On  this  condition  can  I  play  the  agent 
For  your  concerns. 

Max.  But  wherefore  comes  she  not  ? 

Where  is  she  ? 

Coun.  Into  my  hands  you  must  place  it 

Whole  and  entire.     Whom  could  you  find,  indeed, 
More  zealously  affected  to  your  interest  ? 
No  soul  on  earth  must  know  it — not  your  father. 
He  must  not  above  all. 

Max.  Alas !  what  danger  ? 

Here  is  no  face  on  which  I  might  concentre 
All  the  enraptured  soul  stirs  up  within  me. 

0  Lady !  tell  me.    Is  all  changed  around  me ; 
Or  is  it  only  I  ? 

I  find  myself, 

As  among  strangers !  Not  a  trace  is  left 
Of  all  my  former  wishes,  former  joys. 
Where  has  it  vanished  to  ?    There  was  a  time 
When  even,  methought,  with  such  a  world,  as  this, 

1  was  not  discontented.     Now  how  flat! 

How  stale !    No  life,  no  bloom,  no  flavour  in  it ! 

My  comrades  are  intolerable  to  me. 

My  father — Even  to  him  I  can  say  nothing. 

My  arms,  my  military  duties — O! 

They  are  such  wearying  toys ! 

Conn.  But,  gen  tie  friend; 

I  must  entreat  it  of  your  condescension, 
You  would  be  pleased  to  sink  your  eye,  and  favour 
With  one  short  glance  or  two  this  poor  stale  world, 
Where  even  now  much,  and  of  much  moment, 
Is  on  the  eve  of  its  completion. 

Max.  Something, 

I  can't  but  know,  is  going  forward  round  me. 
I  see  it  gathering,  crowding,  driving  on, 
In  wild  uncustomary  movements.     Well, 
In  due  time,  doubtless,  it  will  reach  even. me. 
Where  think  you  I  have  been,  dear  lady  ?    Nay, 
No  raillery.    The  turmoil  of  the  camp, 
The  spring-tide  of  acquaintance  rolling  in, 
The  pointless  jest,  the  empty  conversation, 
Oppressed  and  stifled  me.     I  gasped  for  air — 
I  could  not  breathe — I  was  constrained  to  fly, 
To  seek  a  silence  out  for  my  full  heart ; 
And  a  pure  spot  wherein  to  feel  my  happiness. 
No  smiling,  Countess!    In  the  church  wa^  I. 
There  is  a  cloister  here  to  the  *  heaven's  gate, 
Thither  I  went,  there  found  myself  alone. 
Over  the  altar  hung  a  holy  mother  j 

*  I  am  doubtful  whether  this  be  the  dedication  of  the  cloister,  or 
the  name  of  one  of  the  city  gates,  near  which  it  stood.  I  have 
translated  it  in  the  former  sense  ;  but  fearful  of  having  made  some 
blunder,  laddtha  o.'ijinal.—  EJ  ist  eia  Klaster  hier  zur  Himrne.ls- 
I.  *"  ''c 


290  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

A  wretched  painting  'twas,  yet  'twas  the  friend 
That  I  was  seeking  in  this  moment.    Ah, 
How  oft  have  I  beheld  that  glorious  form 
In  splendour,  mid  ecstatic  worshippers ; 
Yet,  still  it  moved  me  not !  and  now  at  once 
Was  my  devotion  cloudless  as  my  love. 

Coun.  Enjoy  your  fortune  and  felicity! 
Forget  the  world  around  you.    Meantime,  friendship 
Shall  keep  strict  vigils  for  you,  anxious,  active. 
Only  be  manageable  when  that  friendship 
Points  you  the  road  to  full  accomplishment. 
How  long  may  it  be  since  you  declared  your  passion  ? 

Max.  This  morning  did  I  hazard  the  first  word. 

Coun.  This  morning  the  first  time  in  twenty  days  ? 

Max.  'Twas  at  that  hunting-castle,  betwixt  here 
And  Nepomuck,  where  you  had  joined  us,  and — 
That  was  the  last  relay  of  the  whole  journey ! 
In  a  balcony  we  were  standing  mute, 
And  gazing  out  upon  the  dreary  field : 
Before  us  the  dragoons  were  riding  onward, 
The  safe-guard  which  the  Duke  had  sent  us — heavy 
The  inquietude  of  parting  lay  upon  me, 
And  trembling  ventured  I  at  length  these  words : 
This  all  reminds  me,  noble  maiden,  that 
To-day  I  must  take  leave  of  my  good  fortune. 
A  few  hours  more,  and  you  will  lind  a  father, 
Will  see  yourself  surrounded  by  new  friends, 
And  I  henceforth  shall  be  but  as  a  stranger, 
Lost  in  the  many — "  Speak  with  my  aunt  Tertsky !" 
With  hurrying  voice  she  interrupted  me. 
She  faltered.     I  beheld  a  glowing  red 
Possess  her  beautiful  cheeks,  and  from  the  ground 
Raised  slowly  up  her  eye  met  mine — no  longer 
Did  I  control  myself. 

[  The  PRINCESS  THEKLA  appears  at  the  door,  and  remains 
standing,    observed   by    the   COUNTESS,    but   not  by 

PlCCOLOMIM. 

With  instant  boldness 

I  caught  her  in  my  arms,  my  mouth  touched  hers ; 
There  was  a  rustling  in  the  room  close  by ; 
It  parted  us — 'Twas  you.    What  since  has  happened, 
You  know. 

Coun.  (after  a  pause,  with  a  stolen  glance  at  THEKLA.)  And 

is  it  your  excess  of  modesty ; 
Or  are  you  so  incurious,  that  you  do  not 
Ask  me  too  of  my  secret  ? 

Max.  Of  your  secret  f 

Coun.  Why,  yes  !    When  in  the  instant  after  you 
I  stepped  into  the  room,  and  found  my  niece  there, 
What  she  in  this  first  moment  of  the  heart 
Ta'en  with  surprise — 

Max.  (with eagerness.)  Well? 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  291 

SCENE  IV. — TIIEKLA  (hurries  forward)  COUNTESS,  MAX. 
PICCOLOMINI. 

Thek.  (to  the  COUNTESS.)  Spare  yourself  the  trouble : 
That  hears  he  better  from  myself. 

Max.  (stepping  backward.}  My  Princess! 

What  have  you  let  her  hear  me  say,  Aunt  Tertsky ! 

Thek.  (to  the  COUNTESS.)  Has  he  been  here  long  ? 

Coun.  Yes ;  and  soon  must  go. 

Where  have  you  stayed  so  long  I 

Thek.  Alas!  my  mother 

Wept  so  again !  and  I— I  see  her  suffer, 
Yet  cannot  keep  myself  from  being  happy. 

Max.  Now  once  again  I  have  courage  to  look  on  you. 
To-day  at  noon  I  could  not. 
The  dazzle  of  the  jewels  that  play'd  round  you 
Hid  the  beloved  from  me. 

Thek.  Then  you  saw  me 

With  your  eye  only— and  not  with  your  heart  ? 

Max.  This  morning,  when  I  found  you  in  the  circle 
Of  all  your  kindred,  in  your  father's  arms, 
Beheld  myself  an  alien  in  this  circle, 
O  !  what  an  impulse  felt  I  in  that  moment 
To  fall  upon  his  neck,  to  call  him  father  ! 
But  his  stern  eye  o'erpowered  the  swelling  passion — 
It  dared  not  but  be  silent.    And  those  brilliants, 
That  like  a  crown  of  stars  en  wreathed  your  brows, 
They  scared  me  too !    O  wherefore,  wherefore  should  he 
At  the  first  meeting  spread  as  'twere  the  ban 
Of  excommunication  round  you,  wherefore 
Dress  up  the  angel  as  for  sacrifice, 
And  cast  upon  the  light  and  joyous  heart 
The  mournful  burthen  of  his  station  ?    Fitly 
May  love  dare  woo  for  love ;  but  such  a  splendour 
Might  none  but  monarchs  venture  to  approach. 

Thek.  Hush !  not  a  word  more  of  this  mummery, 
You  see  how  soon  the  burthen  is  thrown  off.  [not  ? 

(To  the  COUNTESS. )  He  is  not  in  spirits.    Wherefore  is  he 
'Tis  you,  aunt,  that  have  made  him  all  so  gloomy ! 
He  had  quite  another  nature  on  the  journey — 
So  calm,  so  bright,  so  joyous  eloquent. 
( To  MAX.)  It  was  my  wish  to  see  you  always  so, 
And  never  otherwise ! 

Max.  You  find  yourself 

In  your  great  father's  arms,  beloved  lady ! 
All  in  a  new  world,  which  does  homage  to  you, 
And  which,  wer't  only  by  its  novelty, 
Delights  your  eye. 

Thek.  Yes ;  I  confess  to  you 

That  many  things  delight  me  here :  this  camp, 
This  motley  ^stage  of  warriors,  which  renews 


292 


THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 


So  manifold  the  image  of  my  fancy, 
And  binds  to  life,  binds  to  reality, 
What  hitherto  had  but  been  present  to  me 
As  a  sweet  dream ! 

Max.  Alas !  not  so  to  me. 

It  makes  a  dream  of  my  reality. 
Upon  some  island  in  the  ethereal  heights 
I've  lived  for  these  last  days.    This  mass  of  men 
Forces  me  down  to  earth.    It  is  a  bridge 
That,  reconducting  to  my  former  life, 
Divides  me  and  my  heaven. 

Thek.  The  game  of  life 

Looks  cheerful,  when  one  carries  in  one's  heart 
The  urialieuable  treasure.    'Tis  a  game, 
Which  having  once  reviewed,  I  turn  more  joyous 
Back  to  my  deeper  and  appropriate  bliss. 

[Breaking  off,  and  in  a  sportive  tone. 
In  this  short  time  that  I've  been  present  here. 
What  new  unheard-of  things  have  I  not  seen! 
And  yet  they  all  must  give  place  to  the  wonder 
Which  this  mysterious  castle  guards. 

Coun.  (recollecting.)  And  what 

Can  this  be  then  f    Methought  I  was  acquainted 
With  all  the  dusky  corners  of  this  house.  [spirits, 

Thek.  (smiling.)   Ay,  but  the  road  thereto  is  watched  by 
Two  griffins  still  stand  sentry  at  the  door. 

Coun.  (laughs.)  The  astrological  tower! — How  happens  it 
That  this  same  sanctuary,  whose  access 
Is  to  all  others  so  impracticable, 
Opens  before  you  even  at  your  approach. 

Thek.  A  dwarfish  old  man  with  a  friendly  face 
And  snow-white  hairs,  whose  gracious  services 
Were  mine  at  first  sight,  opened  me  the  doors. 

Max.  That  is  the  Duke's  astrologer,  old  Seni. 

Thek.  He  questioned  me  on  many  points;  for  instance. 
When  I  was  born,  what  month,  and  on  what  day, 
Whether  by  day  or  in  the  night. 

Coun.  He  wished 

To  erect  a  figure  for  your  horoscope. 

Thek.  My  hand  too  he  examined,  shook  his  head 
With  much  sad  meaning,  and  the  lines,  methought, 
Did  not  square  over  truly  with  his  wishes. 

Coun.  Well,  Princess,  and  what  found  you  in  this  tower  ? 
My  highest  privilege  has  been  to  snatch 
A  side-glance,  and  away ! 

Thek.  It  was  a  strange 

Sensation  that  came  o'er  me,  when  at  first 
From  the  broad  sunshine  I  stepped  in  ;  and  now 
The  narrowing  line  of  day-light,  that  ran  after 
The  closing  door,  was  gone ;  and  all  about  me 
'Twas  pale  and  dusky  night,  with  many  shadows 
Fantastically  cast.    Here  six  or  seven 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  293 

Colossal  statues,  and  all  kings,  stood  round  me 
In  a  half-circle.    Each  one  in  his  hand 
A  sceptre  bore,  and  on  his  head  a  star ; 
And  in  the  tower  no  other  light  was  there 
But  from  these  sta  s:  all  seemed  to  come  from  them. 
"  These  are  the  planets,"  said  that  low  old  man, 
"  They  govern  worldly  fates,  and  for  that  cause 
;  Are  imaged  here  as  kings,     lie  farthest  from  you, 
'  Spiteful  and  cold,  an  old  man  melancholy, 
•  With,  bent  and  yellow  forehead,  he  is  SATURN. 
'He  opposite,  the  king  with  the  red  light, 
'  An  arm'd  man  for  the  battle,  that  is  MARS  : 
'  And  both  these  bring  but  little  luck  to  man." 
But  at  his  side  a  lovely  lady  stood, 
The  star  upon  her  head  was  soft  and  bright, 
And  that  was  VENUS,  the  bright  star  of  joy. 
On  the  left  hand,  lo!  MERCURY,  with  wings. 
Quite  in  the  middle  glittered  silver-bright 
A  cheerful  man,  and  with  a  monarch's  mien ; 
And  this  was  JUPITER,  my  father's  star : 
And  at  his  side  I  saw  the  SUN  and  MOON. 

Max.  O  never  rudely  will  I  blame  his  faith 
In  the  might  of  stars  and  angels!    'Tis  not  merely 
The  human  being's  PRIDE  that  peoples  space 
With  life  and  mystical  predominance ; 
Since  likewise  for  the  stricken  heart  of  LOVE 
This  visible  nature,  and  this  common  world, 
Is  all  too  narrow:   yea,  a  deeper  import 
Lurks  in  the  legend  told  my  infant  years 
That  lies  upon  that  truth,  we  live  to  learn. 
For  fable  is  Love's  world,  his  home,  his  birth-place  : 
Delightedly  dwells  he  'mong  fays  and  talismans, 
And  spirits;  and  delightedly  believes 
Divinities,  being  himself  divine. 
The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets, 
The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 
The  Power,  the  Beauty,  and  the  Majesty, 
That  had  their  haunts  in  dale,  or  piny  mountain, 
Or  forest  by  slow  stream,  or  pebbly  spring, 
Or  chasms  and  wat'ry  depths ;  all  these  have  vanished. 
They  live  no  longer  in  the  faith  of  reason  ! 
But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a  language,  still 
Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old  names, 
And  to  yon  starry  world  they  now  are  gone, 
*  Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  share  this  earth 
With  man  as  with  their  friend ;  and  to  the  lover 
Yonder  they  move,  from  yonder  visible  sky 
Shoot  influence  down :  and  even  at  this  day 

*  "  No  more  of  talk,  where  god  or  angel  guest 
With  man,  as  with  his  friend  familiar,  used 
To  sit  indulgent.  "—Paradise  Lost,  b.  ix. 


294  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

'Tis  Jupiter  who  brings  whate'er  is  great, 
And  Venus  who  brings  every  thing  that's  fair  ! 

Thek.  And  if  this  be  the  science  of  the  stars, 
I  too,  with  glad  and  zealous  industry, 
Will  learn  acquaintance  with  this  cheerful  faith, 
It  is  a  gentle  and  affectionate  thought, 
That  in  immeasurable  heights  above  us, 
At  our  first  birth,  the  wreath  of  love  was  woven, 
With  sparkling  stars  for  flowers. 

Coun.  Not  only  roses, 

But  thorns  too  hath  the  heaven ;  and  well  for  you 
Leave  they  your  wreath  of  love  inviolate, 
What  Venus  twined,  the  bearer  of  glad  fortune, 
The  sullen  orb  of  Mars  soon  tears  to  pieces. 

Max.  Soon  will  his  gloomy  empire  reach  its  close. 
Blest  be  the  General's  zeal:  into  the  laurel 
Will  he  inweave  the  olive-branch,  presenting 
Peace  to  the  shouting  nations.    Then  no  wish 
Will  have  remained  for  his  great  heart !     Enough 
Has  he  performed  for  glory,  and  can  now 
Live  for  himself  and  his.     To  his  domains 
Will  he  retire;  he  has  a  stately  seat 
Of  fairest  view  at  Gitschin;  Reichenberg, 
And  Friedland  Castle,  doth  lie  pleasantly — 
Even  to  the  foot  of  the  huge  mountains  here 
Stretches  the  chase  and  covers  of  his  forests : 
His  ruling  passion,  to  create  the  splendid, 
He  can  indulge  without  restraint ;  can  give 
A  princely  patronage  to  every  art, 
And  to  all  worth  a  Sovereign's  protection. 
Can  build,  can  plant,  can  watch  the  starry  courses— 

Coun.  Yet  I  would  have  you  look,  and  look  agaiti, 
Before  you  lay  aside  your  arms,  young  friend  ! 
A  gentle  bride,  as  she  is,  is  well  worth  it 
That  you  should  woo  and  win  her  with  the  sword. 

Max.  O,  that  the  sword  could  win  her! 

Coun.  What  was  that  ? 

Did  you  hear  nothing  ?    Seem'd  as  if  I  heard 
Tumult  and  larum  in  the  banquet-room.     [Exit  COUNTESS. 

SCENK  V.— THEKLA  and  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

Thek.  (as  soon  as  Ihe  COUNTESS  is  out  of  sight,  in  a  quick 
low  voice  to  PICCOLOMINI.)  Don't  trust  them!  They 
are  false! 

Max.  Impossible ! 

Thek.  Trust  no  one  here  but  me.     I  saw  at  once, 
They  had  &  purpose. 

Max.  Purpose !  but  what  purpose  ? 

And  how  can  we  be  instrumental  to  it  ? 

Thek.  I  know  no  more  than  you ;  but  yet,  believe  me 
There's  some  design  in  this !  to  make  us  happy, 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  295 

To  realize  our  union — trust  me,  love ! 
They  but  pretend  to  wish  it. 

Max.  But  these  Tertskys 

Why  use  we  them  at  all  ?    Why  not  your  mother  ? 
Excellent  creature  !  she  deserves  from  us 
A  full  and  filial  confidence. 

Thek.  She  doth  love  you, 

Doth  rate  you  high  before  all  others — but — 
But  such  si  secret — she  would  never  have 
The  courage  to  conceal  it  from  my  father. 
For  her  own  peace  of  mind  we  must  preserve  it 
A  secret  from  her  too. 

Max.  Why  any  secret  ? 

I  love  not  secrets.     Mark,  what  I  will  do. 
I'll  throw  me  at  your  father's  feet — let  him 
Decide  upon  my  fortunes ! — He  is  true, 
He  wears  no  mask — he  hates  all  crooked  ways — 
He  is  so  good,  so  noble! 

Thek.  (falls  on  his  neck.)  That  are  you ! 

Max.  You  knew  him  only  since  this  morn ;  but  I 
Have  liv'd  ten  years  already  in  his  presence, 
And  who  knows  whether  in  this  very  moment 
He  is  not  merely  waiting  for  us  both 
To  own  our  loves,  in  order  to  unite  us. 

You  are  silent  ? 

You  look  at  me  with  such  a  hopelessness! 
What  have  you  to  object  against  your  father? 

Thek.  I  ?    Nothing.     Only  he's  so  occupied — 
He  has  no  leisure  time  to  think  about 
The  happiness  of  us  two.          [  Taking  his  hand  tenderly. 

Follow  me ! 

Let  us  not  place  too  great  a  faith  in  men. 
These  Tertskys— we  will  still  be  grateful  to  them 
For  every  kindness,  but  not  trust  them  further 

Than  they  deserve ; — and  in  all  else  rely 

On  our  own  hearts  I 

Max.  O !  shall  we  e'er  be  happy  I 

Thek.  Are  we  not  happy  now ;  Art  thou  not  mine ; 
Am  I  not  thine;  There  lives  within  my  soul 
A  lofty  courage — 'tis  love  gives  it  me ! 
I  ought  to  be  less  open — ought  to  hide 
My  heart  more  from  thee — so  decorum  dictates  : 
But  where  in  this  place  could'st  thou  seek  for  truth, 
If  in  my  mouth  thou  didst  not  find  it  ? 

SCENE  VI.— To  them  enters  the  COUNTESS  TERTSKY. 

Coun.  (in  a  pressing  manner.)  Come! 

My  husband  sends  me  for  you — It  is  now 
The  latest  moment. 

[  They  not  appearing  to  attend  to  what  she  says,  she 
steps  between  them. 


296  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Part  you ! 

Thck.  O,  not  yet ! 

It  has  been  scarce  a  moment. 

Coun.  Aye  ?    Then  time 

Flies  swiftly  with  your  Highness,  Princess  niece ! 
Max.  There  is  no  hurry,  aunt. 
Coun.  Away!  away! 

The  folks  begin  to  miss  you.     Twice  already 
His  father  has  asked  for  him. 
^Thek.  Ha!  his  father? 

'Coun.  You  understand  that,  niece! 
Thek.  .       Why  needs  he 

To  go  at  all  to  that  society  I 
7Tis  not  his  proper  company.     They  may 
Be  worthy  men,  but  he's  too  young  for  them. 
In  brief,  he  suits  not  such  society. 

Coun.  You  mean,  youM  rather  keep  him  wholly  here? 
Thek.  (with  energy.)  Yes!  you  have  hit  it,  aunt!    That  13 

my  meaning. 
Leave  him  here  wholly!  Tell  tho  company — 

Coun.  What  ?  have  you  lost  your  senses,  niece  ? 
Count,  you  remember  the  condi  ions.     Come!  [lady! 

Max    (to  THEKLA.)  Lady,  I  must  obey.     Farewell  dear 
[THEKLA  turns  away  from  him  with  a  quick  motion. 
What  say  you  then,  dear  lady  1 

Thek.  (without  looking  at  him.)  Nothing.   Go! 

Max.  Can  I,  when  you  are  angry 

[He  drains  vp  to  her,  their  eyes  meet,  she  stands  silent 
a  moment,  then  throws  herself  into  hii  arms;   he 
presses  her  fast  to  hi*  heart. 
Coun.  Off!  Heavens!  if  any  one  should  come ! 

Hark  !    What's  that  noise  f    It  comes  this  way. Off! 

[MAX.  tears  himself  away  out  of  her  arms,  and  (joes. 
The  COUNTESS  accompanies  him.  THEKLA  fol- 
lows him  with  her  eyes  at  first,  walks  rcfitlfx*ly 
across  the  room,  then  stops,  and  remains  standing, 
lost  in  thought.  A  guitar  lies  on  the  table,  she  seize* 
it  as  by  a  sudden  emotion,  and  after  she  has  played 
a  while  an  irregular  and  melancholy  symphony, 
she  falls  gradually  into  the  music  and  sings. 
Thek.  (plays  and  sings.) 

The  cloud  doth  gather,  the  greenwood  roar, 
The  damsel  paces  along  the  shore  ; 
The  billows  they  tumble  with  might,  with  might; 
And  she  flings  out  her  voice  to  the  darksome  night, 

Her  bosom  is  swelling  with  sorrow; 
The  world  it  is  empty,  the  heart  will  die. 
There's  nothing  to  wish  for  beneath  the  sky 
Thou  Holy  One,  call  thy  child  away! 
I've  lived  and  loved,  and  that  was  to-day — 

Make  ready  my  grave-clothes  to-morrow.* 

*  I  found  it  not  in  my  power  to  translate  this  song  with  literal. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  297 

SCENE  VII. — COUNTESS  (returns),  THEKLA. 

Coun.  Fie,  lady  niece!  to  throw  yourself  upon  him, 
Like  a  poor  gift  to  one  who  cares  not  for  it, 
And  so  much  be  flung  after  him!   For  you, 
Duke  Friedland's  only  child,  I  should  have  thought, 
It  had  been  more  beseeming  to  have  shewn  yourself 
More  chary  of  your  person. 

Thek.  (rising.)  And  what  mean  you  f 

Conn.  I  mean,  niece,  that  you  should  not  have  forgotten 
"NY ho  you  are,  and  who  he  is.     Bufc  perchance 
That  never  once  occurred  to  you. 

Thek.  What  then?       [Friedland. 

Coun.   That  you're  the  daughter  of  the   Prince-Duke 

Thek.  Well— and  what  farther? 

Coun.  What  ?  a  pretty  question  ! 

Thek.  He  was  lorn  that  which  we  have  but  become. 
He's  of  an  ancient  Lombard  family, 
Son  of  a  reigning  princess. 

fidelity,  preserving  at  the  same  time  the  Alcaio  Movement;  and 
have  therefore  added  the  original  with  a  prose  translation.  Some 
of  my  readers  may  be  more  fortunate. 

THEKLA.  (spiclt  und  singt.) 
Der  Eichwald  brauset,  die  Wolken  ziehn, 
Das  Magdlein  wandelt  an  Ufers  Grflu, 
Es  bricht  sich  die  Welle  mit  Macht,  mit  Macht, 
Uud  sie  singt  hinaus  in  die  finstre  Nacht, 

Das  Auge  von  Weinen  getriibet: 
Das  Herz  ist  gestorben.  die  Welt  ist  leer, 
Und  welter  giebet  sie  dem  Wunsche  nichts  mehr. 
Du  Heilige,  rufe  dein  Kind  zuruck, 
Ich  habe  genossen  das  irdisehe  Gluek, 

Ich  habe  gelebt  uud  geliebet. 

LITERAL  TRANSLATION. 

THEKLA  (plays  and  sings). 

The  oak-forest  bellows,  the  clouds  gather,  the  damsel  walks  to 
and  fro  on  the  green  of  the  shore;  the  wave  breaks  with  might, 
with  might,  and  she  sings  out  into  the  dark  night,  her  eye  dis- 
coloured with  weeping:  the  heart  is  dead,  the  world  is  empty,  and 
further  gives  it  nothing  more  to  the  wish.  Thou  Holy  One,  call 
thy  child  home.  I  have  enjoyed  the  happiness  of  this  world,  I  have 
lived  and  loved. 

I  cannot  but  add  here  an  imitation  of  this  song,  with  which  the 
author  of  "The  Tale  of  Rosamund  Gray  and  Blind  Margaret,"  has 
favoured  me,  and  which  appears  to  me  to  have  caught  the  happiest 
manner  of  our  old  ballads. 

The  clouds  are  blackening,  the  storms  threatening, 

The  cavern  doth  mutter,  the  greenwood  moan ; 
Billows  are  breaking-,  the  damsel's  heart  aching, 

Thus  in  the  dark  night  she  singeth  alone, 

Her  eye  upward  roving: 
The  world  is  empty,  the  heart  is  dead  surely. 

In  this  world  plainly  all  seemeth  amiss; 
To  thy  heaven.  Holy  One,  take  home  thy  little  one 

I  have  partaken  of  all  earth's  bliss, 
Both  living  and  loving. 


293  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Conn.  Are  you  dreaming  ? 

Talking  in  sleep?  An  excellent  jest,  forsooth! 
We  shall  110  doubt  right  courteously  entreat  him 
To  honour  with  his  hand  the  richest  heiress 
In  Europe. 

Thek.        That  wil  1  not  be  neceesary . 

Coun.  Methinks  'twere  well  though  not  to  run  the  hazard. 

Thek.  His  father  loves  him,  Count  Octavio 
Will  interpose  no  difficulty 

Coun.  His ! 

His  father!  his  !   But  yours,  niece,  Avhat  of  yours  ? 

Thek.  Why  I  begin  to  thiuk  you  fear  his  father. 
So  anxiously  you  hide  it  from  the  man! 
His  father,  his,  I  mean. 

Coun.  (looks  at  her,  as  scrutinizing.)  Niece,  you  fire  false. 

Thek.  Are  you  then  wounded?  O,  be  friends  with  me  I 

Coun.  You  hold  your  game  for  won  already.    Do  not 
Triumph  too  soon — ! 

Thek.  (interrupting  her,  and  attempting  to  soothe  her.)    Nay 
now,  be  friends  with  me. 

Coun.  It  is  not  yet  so  far  gone. 

Thek.  I  believe  you. 

Coun.  Did  you  suppose  your  father  had  laid  out 
His  most  important  life  in  toils  of  war, 
Denied  himself  each  quiet  earthly  bliss, 
Had  banished  slumber  from  his  tent,  devoted 
His  noble  head  to  care,  and  for  this  only, 
To  make  a  happy  pair  of  you  I    At  length 
To  draw  you  from  your  convent,  and  conduct 
In  easy  triumph  to  your  arms  the  man 
That  chauc'd  to  please  your  eyes!  All  this,  inethinks, 
He  might  have  purchased  at  a  cheaper  rate. 

Thek.  That  which  he  did  not  plant  for  me  might  yet 
Bear  me  fair  fruitage  of  its  own  accord. 
And  if  my  friendly  and  affectionate  fate, 
Out  of  his  fearful  and  enormous  being, 
Will  but  prepare  the  joys  of  life  for  me — 

Coun.  Thou  seest  it  with  a  lovelorn  maiden's  eyes. 
Cast  thine  eye  round,  bethink  thee  who  thou  art. 
Into  no  house  of  joyance  hast  thou  stepped, 
For  no  espousals  dost  thou  find  the  walls 
Deck'd  out,  no  guests  the  nuptial  garland  wearing. 
Here  is  no  splendour  but  of  arms.    Or  think'st  thou 
That  all  these  thousands  are  here  congregated 
To  lead  up  the  long  dances  at  thy  wedding  ? 
Thou  see'st  thy  father's  forehead  full  of  thought, 
Thy  mother's  eye  in  tears :  upon  the  balance 
Lies  the  great  destiny  of  all  our  house. 
Leave  now  the  puny  wish,  the  girlish  feeling. 
O  thrust  it  far  behind  thee!  Give  thou  proof, 
That  thou'rt  the  daughter  of  the  Mighty— /iw, 
\Vho  where  he  moves  creates  the  wonderful. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  299 

Nor  to  herself  the  woman  must  belong, 

Annexed  and  bound  to  alien  destinies. 

But  she  performs  the  best  part,  she  the  wisest, 

Who  can  transmute  the  alien  into  self, 

Meet  and  disarm  necessity  by  choice  ; 

And  what  must  be,  take  freely  to  her  heart, 

And  bear  and  foster  it  with  mother's  love. 

TJick.  Such  ever  was  my  lesson  in  the  convent. 
I  had  no  loves,  no  wishes,  knew  myself 
Only  as  his — his  daughter — his,  the  Mighty ! 
His  fame,  the  echo  of  whose  blast  drove  to  me 
From  the  far  distance,  wakened  in  my  soul 
No  other  thought  than  this — I  am  appointed 
To  offer  up  myself  in  passiveness  to  him. 

Court.    That  is  thy  fate.    Mould  thou  thy  wishes  to  it. 
I  and  thy  mother  gave  thee  the  example. 

Thek.  My  fate  hath  shewn  me  him,  to  whom  behoves  it 
That  I  should  offer  up  myself.    In  gladness 
Him  will  1  follow. 

Conn.  Not  thy  fate  hath  shewn  him ! 

Thy  heart,  say  rather — 'twas  thy  heart,  my  child ! 

Thek.  Fate  hath  no  voice  but  the  heart's  impulses. 
I  am  all  his !    His  Present — his  alone, 
Is  this  new  life,  which  lives  in  me.    He  hath 
A  right  to  his  own  creature.    What  was  I 
Ere  his  fair  love  infused  a  soul  into  me  ? 

Conn.  Thou  would'st  oppose  thy  father  then,  should  he 
Have  otherwise  determined  with  thy  person  ? 

[THEKLA  remains  silent.     The  COUNTESS  continues. 
Thou  mean'st  to  force  him  to  thy  liking  ? — Child, 
His  name  is  Friedland. 

Thek.  My  name  too  is  Friedland. 

He  shall  have  found  a  genuine  daughter  in  me. 

Conn.  What  ?  he  has  vanquished  all  impediment, 
And  in  the  wilful  mood  of  his  own  daughter 
Shall  a  new  struggle  rise  for  him  ;  Child !  child ! 
As  yet  thou  hast  seen  thy  father's  smiles  alone  : 
The  eye  of  his  rage  thou  hast  not  seen.    Dear  child, 
I  will  not  frighten  thee.    To  that  extreme, 
I  trust,  it  ne'er  shall  come.    His  will  is  yet 
Unknown  to  me :  'tis  possible  his  aims 
May  have  the  same  direction  as  thy  wish. 
But  this  can  never,  never  be  his  will 
That  thou,  the  daughter  of  his  haughty  fortunes, 
Should'st  e'er  demean  thee  as  a  love-sick  maiden; 
And  like  some  poor  cost-nothing,  fling  thyself 
Toward  the  man,  who,  i/that  high  prize  ever 
Be  destined  to  await  him,  yet,  with  sacrifices  [ESS. 

The  highest  love  can  bring,  must  pay  for  it.    [Exit  COUNT- 

Thek.  (who  during  the  last  speech  had  been  standing  evident- 
ly lost  in  her  reflections.}  I  thank  thee  for  the  hint. 
My  sad  presentiment  to  certainty.  [It  turns 


300  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

And  it  is  so ! — Not  one  friend  have  we  here, 

Not  one  true  heart !  we've  nothing  but  ourselves ! 

0  sh^e  said  rightly— no  auspicious  signs 
Beam  on  this  covenant  of  our  affections. 
This  is  no  theatre,  where  hope  abides. 

The  dull  thick  noise  of  war  alone  stirs  here. 
And  love  himself,  as  he  were  armed  in  steel, 
Steps  forth,  and  girds  him  for  the  strife  of  death. 

[Music  from  the  banquet  room  is  heard. 
There's  a  dark  spirit  walking  in  our  house, 
And  swiftly  will  the  Destiny  close  on  us. 
It  drove  me  hither  from  my  calm  asylum, 
It  mocks  my  soul  with  charming  witchery, 
It  lures  me  forward  in  a  seraph's  shape, 

1  see  it  near,  I  see  it  nearer  floating, 

It  draws,  it  pulls  me  with  a  god-like  power — 
And  lo!  the  abyss — and  thither  am  I  moving — 
I  have  no  power  within  me  to  not  move ! 

[The  music  from  the  banquet  room  becomes  louder. 
O  when  a  house  is  doomed  in  fire  to  perish, 
Many  and  dark  heaven  drives  his  clouds  together, 
Yea,  shoots  his  lightnings  down  from  sunny  heights. 
Flames  burst  from  out  the  subterraneous  chasms, 
*And  fiends  and  angels,  mingling  in  their  fury, 
Sling  fire-brands  at  the  burning  edifice.         [Exit  THEKLA. 

SCENE  VIII. — A  large  Saloon  lighted  iq)  with  festal  Splendour; 
in  the  Midst  of  it,  and  in  the  Centre  of  the  Stage,  a  Table 
richly  set  out,  at  ichich  eight  Generals  are  sitting,  among 
whom  are  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  TERTSKY,  and  MARA- 
DAS.  Jiight  and  left  of  this,  but  farther  back,  two  other 
Tables,  at  each  of  which  six  Pet  sons  arc  placed.  The  Mid- 
dle Door,  which  in  standing  open,  gives  to  the  Prospect  a 
fourth  Table,  with  the  same  dumber  of  I'crsonx.  Mote 
forward  stands  the  sideboard.  The  whole  front  of  ihe 
stage  is  kept  open  for  the  Pages  and  Servants  in  wailing. 
All  is  in  Motion.  The  band  of  Music  belonging  to  TERT- 
SKY'S  Regiment  march  across  the  Stage,  and  draw  up 
round  the  Tables.  Before  they  arc  quite  off  from  the  Front 
of  the  Stage,  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI  app  ars,  TERTSKY 
advances  towards  him  with  a  Paper,  ISOLANI  comes  up 
to  meet  him  with  a  Beaker  or  Service-cup. 

TERTSKY,  ISOLANI,  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 
Iso.   Here  brother,  what   we  love !    "Why,  where  hast 
Off,  to  thy  place— quick!  Tertsky  here  has  given     [been? 

*  There  are  few,  who  will  not  have  taste  enough  to  laugh  at  the 
two  concluding  lines  of  this  soliloquy  ;  and  still  fewer,  I  would  fain 
hope,  who  would  not  have  been  more  disposed  to  shudder,  had  I 
given  a  faithful  translation.  For  the  readers  of  German  I  have 
added  the  original : 

Blind-wlithendschleudert  selbst  der  Gott  der  Freude 
Den  Pechkranz  in  das  brennende  Gebaude. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  301 

The  mother's  holiday  wine  up  to  free  booty. 

Here  it.  goes  on  as  at  the  Heidelberg  castle. 

Already  hast  thou  lost  tbe  best.    They're  giving 

At  yonder  table  ducal  crowns  in  shares  ; 

There's  Sternberg's  lands  and  chattels  are  put  up, 

With  Eggenberg's,  Stawata's,  Lichtenstein's, 

And  all  the  great  Bohemian  feodalities. 

Be  nimble,  lad !  and  something  may  turn  up 

For  thee— who  knows  f  off— to  thy  place !  quick !  march! 

Tief.  and  Goetz  (call  out  from  the  second  and  third  tables.} 
Count  Piccolomini ! 

Ter.  Stop,  ye  shall  have  him  in  an  instant. — Read 
This  oath  here,  whether  as  'tis  here  set  forth, 
The  wording  satisfies  you.    They've  all  read  it, 
Each  in  his  turn,  and  each  one  will  subscribe 
His  individual  signature. 

Max.  (reads.)  "  Ingratis  servire  nefas." 

Iso.  That  sounds  to  my  ears  very  much  like  Latin, 
And  being  interpreted,  pray  what  may't  mean  ? 

Ter.  No  honest  man  will  serve  a  thankless  master. 

Max.  Inasmuch  as  our  supreme  Commander,  the  illus- 
trious Duke  of  Friedlaud,  in  consequence  of  the  manifold 
affronts  and  grievances  which  he  has  received,  has  ex- 
pressed his  determination  to  quit  the  Emperor,  but  on  our 
unanimous  entreaty  has  fp-acionsly  consented  to  remain 
still  with  the  army,  and  not  to  part  from  us  without  our  ap- 
probation thereof,  so  we,  collectively  andeach  in  particular,  in 
the  stead  of  an  oath  personally  taken,  do  hereby  oblige  our- 
selves— likewise  by  him  honourably  and  faithfully  to  hold, 
and  in  nowise  whatsoever  from  him  to  part,  and  to  be  ready 
to  shed  for  his  interests  the  last  drop  of  our  blood,  so  far, 
namely,  as  our  oath  to  the  Emperor  will  permit  it.  ( Thexe 
last  words  are  repeated  by  ISOLANI.)  In  testimony  of  which 
we  subscribe  our  names." 

Ter.  Now! — are  you  willing  to  subscribe  this  paper  ? 

Iso.  Why  should  he  not  ?    All  officers  of  honour 
Can  do  it,  aye  must  do  it. — Pen  and  ink  here  ! 

Ter.  Nay,  let  it  rest  till  after  meal. 

Iso.  (drawing  MAX.  along.)  Come,  Max. 

[Both  seat  themselves  at  their  table. 

SCENE  IX. — TERTSKY,  NEUMANN. 

Ter.  (beckons  to  NEUMANN  who  is  walling  at  the  side-table, 
and  steps  forward  with  him  to  the  edge  of  the  stage.) 
Have  you  the  copy  with  you,  Neumann  ?    Give  it. 
It  may  be  changed  for  the  other? 

Neu.  I  have  copied  it 

Letter  by  letter,  line  by  line ;  no  eye 
Would  e'er  discover  other  difference, 
Save  only  the  omission  of  that  clause, 
According  to  your  Excellency's  order. 


302-  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OB  THE 

Ter.  Right !  Lay  it  yonder,  and  away  with  this — 
It  has  performed  its  business — to  the  fire  with  it — 

[NEUMANN  lays  the  copy  on  the  table,  and  steps  back 
again  to  the  side-table. 

SCENE  X. — ILLO.    (Comes    out  from  ihe    second    chamber.) 
TEKTSKY. 

Illo.  How  goes  it  with  young  Piccolomini ! 

Ter.  All  right,  I  think.     He  has  started  no  objection. 

Illo.  He  is  the  only  one  I  fear  about — 
He  and  his  father.     Have  an  eye  on  both ! 

Ter.  How  looks  it  at  your  table  :  You  forget  not 
To  keep  them  warm  and  stirring  ? 

Illo.  O,  quite  cordial, 

They  are  quite  cordial  in  the  scheme.     We  have  them. 
And  'tis  as  I  predicted  too.    Already 
It  is  the  talk,  not  merely  to  maintain 
The  Duke  in  station.    "Siaoe  we're  once  for  all 
Together  and  unanimous,  why  not," 
Says  Montecuculi,  "  ay,  why  not  onward, 
And  make  conditions  with  the  Emperor 
There  in  his  own  Vienna  ?"    Trust  me,  Count, 
Were  it  not  for  these  said  Piccolomini, 
We  might  have  spared  ourselves  the  cheat. 

Ter.  And  Butler  ? 

How  goes  it  there  ?    Hush ! 

SCENE  XI.— To  them  enter  BUTLER  from  the  second  table. 

But.  Don't  disturb  yourselves. 

Field  Marshal,  I  have  understood  you  perfectly. 
Good  luck  be  to  the  scheme;  and  as  to  me  (with  an  air  of 
You  may  depend  upon  me.  [myxtcry.) 

Illo.  (with  vivacity.)  May  we,  Butler  ? 

But.  WTith  or  without  the  clause,  all  one  to  me ! 
You  understand  me?    My  fidelity 
The  Duke  may  put  to  any  proof— I'm  with  him ! 
Tell  him  so!    I'm  the  Emperor's  officer, 
As  long  as  'tis  his  pleasure  to  remain 
The  Emperor's  general !  and  Friedland's  servant, 
As  soon  as  it  shall  please  him  to  become 
His  own  lord. 

Ter.  You  would  make  a  good  exchange. 
No  stern  economist,  no  Ferdinand, 
Is  he  to  whom  you  plight  your  services. 

But.  (with  a  haughty  look.)  I  do  not  put  up  my  fidelity 
To  sale,  Count  Tertsky !    Half  a  year  ago 
I  would  not  have  advised  you  to  have  made  me 
An  overture  to  that,  to  which  I  now 
Offer  myself  of  my  own  free  accord. — 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  303 

But  that  is  passed !  and  to  the  Duke,  Field  Marshal, 
I  bring  myself  together  with  my  regiment. 
And  mark  you,  'tis  my  humour  to  believe, 
The  example  which  I  give  will  not  remain 
Without  an  influence. 

Illo.  Who  is  ignorant, 

That  the  whole  army  look  to  Colonel  Butler, 
As  to  a  light  that  moves  before  them  ? 

But.  Ey? 

Then  I  repent  me  not  of  that  fidelity 
Which  for  the  length  of  forty  years  I  held, 
If  in  my  sixtieth  year  my  old  good  name 
Can  purchase  for  me  a  revenge  so  full. 
Start  not  at  what  I  say,  sir  Generals ! 
My  real  motives — they  concern  not  you. 
And  you  yourselves,  I  trust,  could  not  expect 
That  this  your  game  had  crooked  my  judgment — or 
That  fickleness,  quick  blood,  or  such  light  cause, 
Has  driven  the  old  man  from  the  track  of  honour, 
Which  he  so  long  had  trodden. — Come,  my  friends ! 
I'm  not  thereto  determined  with  less  firmness, 
Because  I  know  and  have  looked  steadily 
At  that  on  which  I  have  determined. 

Illo.  Say, 

And  speak  roundly,  what  are  we  to  deem  you  ? 

But.  A  friend !  1  give  you  here  my  hand !  I'm  yours 
With  all  I  have.    Not  only  men,  but  money 

Will  the  Duke  want. Go,  tell  him,  sirs  ! 

I've  earned  and  laid  up  somewhat  in  his  service, 

I  lend  it  him  ;  and  is  he  my  survivor, 

It  has  been  already  long  ago  bequeathed  him, 

He  is  my  heir.    For  me,  I  stand  alone 

Here  in  the  world ;  nought  know  I  of  the  feeling 

That  binds  the  husband  to  a  wife  and  children. 

My  name  dies  with  me,  my  existence  ends. 

Illo.  'Tis  not  your  money  that  he  needs — a  heart 
Like  yours  weighs  tons  of  gold  down,  weighs  down  millions! 

But.  1  came  a  simple  soldier's  boy  from  Ireland 
To  Prague — and  with  a  master,  whom  I  buried. 
From  lowest  stable  duty  I  climbed  up, 
Such  was  the  fate  of  war,  to  this  high  rank, 
The  plaything  of  a  whimsical  good  fortune. 
And  Wallenstein  too  is  a  child  of  luck, 
I  love  a  fortune  that  is  like  my  own. 

Illo.  All  powerful  souls  have  kindred  with  each  other. 

But.  This  is  an  awful  moment!  to  the  bra\e, 
To  the  determined,  an  auspicious  moment. 
The  Prince  of  Weimar  arms,  upon  the  Maine 
To  found  a  mighty  dukedom.    He  of  Halberstadt, 
That  MANSFELD,  wanted  but  a  longer  life 
To  have  marked  out  with  his  good  sword  a  lordship 
That  should  reward  his  courage.     Who  of  these 


304  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Equals  our  Friedland  ?  there  is  nothing,  nothing 
So  high,  but  he  may  set  the  ladder  to  it !  ^ 

Ter.  That's  spoken  like  a  man ! 

But.  Do  you  secure  the  Spaniard  and  Italian — 
I'll  he  your  warrant  for  the  Scotchman  Lesly. 
Come!  to  tae  company! 

Ter.  Where  is  the  master  of  the  cellar  ?  Ho! 
Let  the  best  wines  come  up.  Ho  !  cheerly,  boy  ! 
Luck  conies  to-day,  so  give  her  hearty  welcome. 

[Exeunt  each  to  h:*  table. 

SCENE  XII.— The  Master  of  the  Cellar  advancing  with  NEU- 
MAXX,  Servants  passing  backwards  and  forwards. 

Mast,  of  the  Cel.  The  best  wine!  O!  if  my  old  mistress, 
his  lady  mother,  could  but  see  these  wild  goings  ou,sho 
would  turn  herself  round  in  her  grave.  Yes,  yes,  sir  offi- 
cer!  'tis  all  down  the  hill  with  this  noble  house!  no  end, 
no  moderation !  And  this  marriage  with  the  Duke's 
sister,  a  splendid  connection,  a  very  splendid  connection! 
but  I  tell  you,  sir  officer,  it  bodes  no  good. 
*  Nen.  Heaven  forbid !  Why,  at  this  very  moment  the 
whole  prospect  is  in  bud  and  blossom ! 

Mast,  of  the  Cel.  You  think  so  ?— Well,  well !  much  may 
be  said  on  that  head. 

1st  Ser.  (comes.)  Burgundy  for  the  fourth  table. 

Mast,  of  the  Cel.  Now,  sir  lieutenant,  if  this  ain't  the 
seventieth  flask 

Is*  Ser.  Why,  the  reason  is,  that  German  lord  Tiefenbach 
sits  at  that  table. 

Mast,  of  the  Cel.  (continuing  his  discourse  to  NEUMANN.) 
They  are  soaring  too  high.  They  would  rival  kings  and 
electors  in  their  pomp  and  splendour;  and  wherever  the 
Duke  leaps,  not  a  minute  does  my  gracious  master,  the 

count,  loiter  on  the  brink. (To  the  Servants.) — What 

do  you  stand  there  listening  for  f  I  will  let  you  know  you 
have  legs  presently.  Off!  see  to  the  tables,  see  to  'tho 
flasks!  Look  there!  Count  Palfi  has  an  empty  glass  be- 
fore him ! 

Runner  (comes.)  The  great  service  cup  is  wanted,  sir; 
that  rich  gold  cup  with  the  Bohemian  arms  on  it.  The 
Count  says  you  know  which  it  is. 

Mart,  of  the  ('el.  Ay  !  that  was  made  for  Frederick's  cor- 
onation by  the  artist  William— there  was  not  such  another 
prize  in  the  whole  booty  at  Prague. 

Runner.  The  same! — a  health  is  to  go  round  in  him. 

Mart,  of  the  Cel.  (shaking  hi*  head  while  he  fetches  and  rinses 
the  cups.)  This  will  be  something  for  the  tale  bearers — this 
goes  to  Vienna. 

Neu.  Permit  me  to  look  at  it. — Well,  this  is  a  cup  indeed! 
How  heavy !  as  well  it  may  be,  being  all  gold. — And  what 
neat  things  are  embossed  on  it !  how  natural  and  elegant 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  305 

they  look! — There,  on  that  first  quarter,  let  ine  see.  That 
proud  Amazon  there  on  horseback,  she  that  is  taking  a  leap 
over  the  crosier  and  mitres,  and  carries  on  a  wand  a  hat 
together  with  a  banner,  on  which  there's  a  goblet  repre- 
sented. Can  you  tell  mo  what  all  this  signifies  f 

Mast,  of  the  Cel.  The  woman  whom  you  see  there  on 
horseback,  is  the  Free  Election  of  the  Bohemian  Crown. 
That  is  signified  by  the  round  hat,  and  by  that  fiery  steed 
on  which  she  is  riding.  The  hat  is  the  pride  of  man  ;  for 
he  who  cannot  keep  his  hat  on  before  kings  and  emperors 
is  no  free  man. 

Neu.  But  what  is  the  cnp  there  on  the  banner  ? 

Mast,  of  the  Cel.  The  cup  signifies  the  freedom  of  the  Bo- 
hemian Church,  as  it  was  in  our  forefathers*  times.  Our 
forefathers  in  the  wars  of  the  Hussites  forced  from  the 
Pope  this  noble  privilege:  for  the  Pope,  you  know,  will 
not  grant  the  cup  to  any  layman.  Your  true  Moravian 
values  nothing  beyond  the  cup  ;  it  is  his  costly  jewel,  and 
has  cost  the  Bohemians  their  precious  blood  in  many  and 
many  a  battle. 

Neil.  And  what  says  that  chart  that  hangs  in  the  air 
there,  over  it  all  ? 

Mast,  of  the  Cel.  That  signifies  the  Bohemian  letter  royal, 
which  we  forced  from,  the  Emperor  Rudolph — a  precious, 
never-to-be  enough  valued  parchment,  that  secures  to  the 
new  Church  the  old  privileges  of  free  ringing  and  open 
psalmody.  Bat  siuce  he  of  Steiei  mark  has  ruled  over  us, 
that  is  at  an  end ;  and  after  the  battle  at  Prague,  in  which 
Count  Palatin a  Frederic  los*;  crown  and  empire,  our  faith 
hangs  upon  the  pulpit  an>l  the  altar— and  our  brethren 
look  at  their  homes  over  their  shoulders;  but  the  letter 
royal  the  Emperor  himself  cub  to  pieces  with  his  scissars. 

Neil.  Why,  my  good  Master  of  the  Cellar !  you  are  deep 
read  in  the  chronicles  of  your  country  I 

Mast,  of  the  Cel.  So  were  my  forefathers,  and  for  that 
reason  were  the  minstrels,  and  served  under  Piocopins  and 
Ziska.  Peace  be  with  their  ashes!  Well,  well!  they 
fought  for  a  good  cause  though — There!  carry  it  up  ! 

Neu.  Stay  flet  me  but  look  at  this  second  quarter.  Look 
there !  That  is,  when  at  Prague  Castle  the  Imperial  Coun- 
sellors, Martinitz  and  Stawata,  were  hurled  down  head 
over  heels.  'Tis  even  so !  there  stands  Count  Thur  who 
commands  it. 

[Runner  takes  the  service-cup  and  goes  off  with  it. 

Mast,  of  the  Cel.  O  let  me  never  moie  hear  of  that  day. 
It  was  the  three  and  twentieth  of  May,  in  the  year  of 
Lord  one  thousand,  six  hundred,  and  eighteen.  It  seems 
to  me  as  it  were  but  yesterday — from  that  unlucky  day  it 
all  began,  all  the  heartaches  of  the  country.  Since  that 
day  it  is  now  sixteen  years,  and  there  has  never  once  been 
peace  on  the  earth. 

[Health  drank  aloud  at  the  second  table. 


306  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

The  Prince  of  Weimar!  Hurra  ?  [At  the  third  and  fourth  table. 

Long  live  Prince  William!     Long   live   Duke    Bernard? 

Hurra  !  [  Music  strikes  up. 

1st  Ser.  Hear'em!  Hear'em!    What  an  uproar! 

2nd  Ser.  (comes  in  running.)  Did  you  hear  ?  They  have 
drank  tho  Prince  of  Weimar's  health. 

3rd  Ser.  The  Swedish  Chief  Commander! 

1st  Ser.  (speaking  at  the  same  time.)  The  Lutheran! 

2nd  Ser.  Just  before,  when  Count  Deodate  gave  out  the 
Emperor's  health,  they  were  all  as  mum  as  a  nibbling 
mouse. 

Hani,  of  the  Ccl  Po,  po!  When  the  wine  goes  in,  strange 
things  come  out.  A  good  servant  hears,  and  hears  not !  — 
You  should  be  nothing  but  eyes  and  feet,  except  when 
you're  called  to. 

2nd  Ser.  (to  the  Runner,  to  whom  he  gives  secretly  a  flask  of 
wine,  keeping  his  eye  on  the  Master  of  the  Cellar,  standing  bs- 
tween  him  and  the  Runner.)  Quick,  Thomas!  before  the 
Master  of  the  Cellar  runs  this  way — 'tis  a  flask  of  Fonti- 
gnac !— Snapped  it  up  at  the  third  table — Canst  go  off 
with  it  ? 

Run.  (hides  it  in  his  pocket.)    All  right ! 

[Exit  the  Second  Servant. 

3rd  Ser.  (aside  to  the  First.)  Be  on  the  hark,  Jack!  that 
we  may  have  right  plenty  to  tell  to  Father  Quivoga — He 
will  give  us  right  plenty  of  absolution  in  return  for  it. 

1st  Ser.  For  that  very  purpose  I  am  always  having  some- 
thing to  do  behind  Illo's  chair. — He  is  the  man  for  speeches 
to  make  yon  stare  with ! 

Mast,  of  the  Cel.  (to  NEUMANN.)  Who,  pray,  may  that 
swarthy  man  be,  he  with  the  cross,  that  is  chatting  so  con- 
fidently with  Esterhats ! 

JVert.  Ay !  ho  too  is  one  of  those  to  whom  they  confide 
too  much.  Ho  calls  himself  Maradas,  a  Spaniard  is  ho. 

Mast,  of  the  Cel.  (impatiently.)  Spaniard!  Spaniard! — I 
tell  you,  friend  ;  nothing  good  comes  of  those  Spaniards. 
All  these  outlandish*  fellows  are  little  better  than  rogues. 

KCU.  Fy,  fy!  you  should  not  say  so,  friend.  There  are 
among  them  our  very  best  generals,  and  those  on  whom 
tho  Duko  nt  this  moment  relies  the  most. 

Must,  of  the  Ccl.  (taking  the  flask  out  of  the  Runner's  pock- 
et.) My  son,  it  will  be  broken  to  pieces  in  your  pocket. 

[TERTSKY  hurries  in,  fetches  away  the  paper,  and 
calls  to  a  Servant  for  pen  and  ink,  and  goes  to 
the  back  of  the  stage. 

Mast.of  the  Cel.  (to  the  Servants.)  The  Lieutenant-General 

*  There  is  a  humour  in  the  original  which  cannot  be  given  in  the 
translation.  "  Die  welschen  alle,"  &c.,  which  word  in  classical  Ger- 
man means  the  Italians  alone  ;  but  in  its  first  sense,  and  at  present 
in  the  vulgar  use  of  the  word,  signifies  foreigners  in  general.  Our 
word  wall-nuts,  I  suppose,  means  outlandish  nuts— Wallae  uuces,  in 
German  "Welsch  nusse."— T. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTELN.  307 

stands  up. — Be  on  the  watch. — Now!  They  break  up. — Off, 
and  move  back  the  forms  ! 

[They  rise  at  all  the  tables,  the  Servants  hurry  off  the 
front  of  the  stage  to  the  tables  ;  part  of  the  Guests 
come  forward. 

SCENS  XIII. — (OcTAVio  PICCOLOMINI  enters  in  conversation, 
with  MARADAS,  and  both  place  themselves  quite  on  the  edge 
of  the  stage  on  one  side  of  the  proscenium.  On  the  side 
directly  opposite,  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI,  by  himself,  lost  in 
thought,  and  taking  no  part  in  anything  that  is  going  for- 
ward. The  middle  space  between  both,  but  rather  more 
distant  from  the  edge  of  the  stage,  is  filled  up  by  BUTLER, 

ISOLANI,  GOETZ,  TlEFENBACH,  and  KOLATTO.) 

Iso.  (while  the  company  is  coming  forward.)  Good  night, 
good  night,  Kolatto!  Good  night,  Lieutenant-General ! — 
I  should  rather  say,  good  morning. 

Goelz.  (to  TIEFENBACH.)  Noble  brother !  (making  the  usual 
compliment  after  meals.) 

Tief.  Ay !  'twas  a  royal  feast  indeed. 

Goctz.  Yes,  my  Lady  Countess  understands  these  matters. 
Her  mother-in-law,  heaven  rest  her  soul,  taught  her! — Ah! 
that  was  a  housewife  for  you ! 

Ticf.  There  was  not  her  like  in  all  Bohemia  for  setting 
out  a  table. 

Oct.  (aside  to  MARADAS.)  Do  me  the  favour  to  talk  to  me 
— talk  of  what  you  will — or  of  nothing.  Ouly  preserve  the 
appearance  at  least  of  talking.  I  would  not  wish  to  stand 
by  myself,  and  yet  I  conjecture  that  there  will  be  goings 
on  here  worthy  of  our  attentive  obervation. 

[He  continues  to  fix  his  eye  on  the  whole  following  scene. 

Iso.  (on  the  point  of  going.)  Lights!  lights! 

Ter.  (advances  with  the  paper  to  ISOLANI.)  Noble  "brother! 
two  minutes  longer! — Here  is  something  to  subscribe. 

Iso.  Subscribe  as  much  as  you  like — but  you  must  excuse 
me  from  reading  it. 

Ter.  There  is  no  need.  It  is  the  oath  which  you  have  al- 
ready read. — Only  a  few  marks  of  your  pen  ! 

[ISOLANI  hands  over  the  paper  to  OCTAVIO  respectfully. 

Ter.  Nay,  nay,  first  come  first  served.  There  is  no  pre- 
cedence here. 

[OcTAVio  runs  over  the  paper  with  apparent  indif- 
ference. TERTSKY  watches  him  at  some  distance. 

Goetz.  (to  TERTSKY.)  Noble  Count!  with  your  permission 
— Good  night. 

Ter.  Where's  the  hurry?  Come,  one  other  composing 
draught.  ( To  the  servants.) — Ho ! 

Goetz.  Excuse  me — an't  able. 

T.er.  A  thimble-full ! 

Goetz.  Excuse  me. 

Tief.  (sits  down.)  Pardon  me,  nobles  I — This  standing  does 
not  agree  with  me. 


308  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Ter.  Consult  only  your  own  convenience,  General  f 
Tie/.   Clear  at  head,  sound  in  stomach — only  my  legs 
won't  carry  me  any  longer. 

Iso.  (pointing  at  his  corpulence.}  Poor  legs!  how  should 
they  ?  Such  an  unmerciful  load! 

[OcTAVio  subscribes  his  name,  and  reaches  over  the 
paper  to  TEKTSKY,  who  gives  it  to  ISOLANI  ;  and 
he  goes  to  the  table  to  sign  his  name. 

Tief.  'Twas  that  war  in  Pomerania  that  first  brought  it 
on.  Out  in  all  weathers — ice  and  snow — no  help  for  it. — I 
shall  never  get  the  better  of  it  all  the  days  of  my  life. 

Goetz.  Why,  in  simple  verity,  your  Swede  makes  no  nice 
enquiries  about  the  season. 

Ter.  (observing  ISOLANI,  whose  hand  trembles  excessively,  HO 
that  he  can  scarce  direct  his  pen.)  Have  yon  had  that  ugly 
complaint  long,  noble  brother? — Dispatch  it. 

Iso.  The  sins  of  youth !  I  have  already  tried  the  Chaly- 
beate waters.  Well — I  must  bear  it. 

[TKRTSKY  giccs  the  paper  to  MARADAS;  he  steps  to 

the  table  to  subscribe. 

Oct.  (advancing  to  BUTLER.)  You  are  not  over  fond  of  the 
orgies  of  Bacchus,  Colouel!  I  have  observed  it.  You  would 
I  think,  find  yourself  more  to  your  liking  in  the  uproar  of 
a  battle,  than  of  a  feast. 
But.  I  must  confess,  'tis  not  in  my  way. 
Oct.  (stepping  nearer  to  himftiendlily.)  Nor  in  mine  either, 
I  can  assure  you ;  and  I  am  not  a  little  glad,  my  much 
honoured  Colonel  Butler,  that  we  agree  so  well  in  our 
opinions.    A  half  dozen  good  friends  at  most,  at  a  small 
round  table,  a  glass  of  genuine  Tokay,  open  hearts,  and  a 
rational  conversation — that's  my  taste  ! 
But.  And  mine  too,  when  it  can  be  had. 

[The paper  comes  to  TIEFENBACH,  who  glances  over  it 
at  the  same  time  with  GOETZ  and  KOLATTO.  MA- 
RADAS in  the  mean  time  returns  to  OCTAVIO,  all 
this  takes  place,  the  conversation  with  BUTLER 


proceeding  uninterrupted, 
troducing  MA 


Oct.  (introducing  MARADAS  to  BUTLER.)  Don  Balthasar 
Maradas !  likewise  a  man  of  our  stamp,  and  long  ago  your 
admirer.  [  BUTLER  bows. 

Oct.  (continuing.)  You  are  a  stranger  here — 'twas  hut 
yesterday  you  arrived; — you  are  ignorant  of  the  ways  and 
means  here.  Tis  a  wretched  place — I  know,  at  our  age, 
one  loves  to  be  snug  and  quiet. — What  if  you  moved  your 
lodgings  ? — Come,  be^  my  visitor.  (BUTLER  makes  a  low 
botv.)  Nay,  without  compliment! — For  a  friend  like  you,  I 
have  still  a  corner  remaining. 

But.  (coldly.)  Your  obliged  humble  servant,  my  Lord 
Lieutenant-General ! 

[  The  paper  comes  to  BUTLER,  who  goes  to  the  table  to 
subscribe  it.  The  front  of  the  stage  is  vacant,  so 
that  both  the  PICCOLOMINIS,  each  on  the  side 


•ffi— : 

FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  309 

where  he  had  been  from  the  commencement  of  the 
scene,  remain  alone. 

Oct.  (After  having  some  time  watched  his  son  in  silence,  ad- 
vances somewhat  nearer  to  him.)  You  were  long  absent  from 
us,  friend! 

Max.  I urgent  business  detained  me. 

Oct.  And,  I  observe,  you  are  still  absent ! 

Max.  You  know  this  crowd  and  bustle  always  makes  me 
silent. 

Oct.  (advancing  still  nearer.)  May  1  be  permitted  to  ask 
what  the  business  was  that  detained  you  ?  Tertsky  knows 
it  without  asking ! 

Max.  What  does  Tertsky  know  ? 

Oct.  He  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  miss  you. 

Iso.  (who  has  been  attending  to  them  from  some  distance, 
steps  up.)  Well  done,  father!  Rout  out  his  baggage! 
Beat  up  his  quarters !  there  is  something  there  that  should 
not  be. 

Ter.  (with  the  paper.)  Is  there  none  wanting?  Have  the 
whole  subscribed  ? 

Oct.  All. 

Ter.  (calling  aloud.)  Ho!  Who  subscribes? 

J3ut.  (to  TERTSKY.)  Count  the  names.  There  ought  to  be 
just  thirty. 

Ter.  Here  is  a  cross. 

Tief.  That's  my  mark. 

Iso.  He  cannot  write ;  but  his  cross  is  a  good  cross,  and 
is  honoured  by  Jews  as  well  as  Christians. 

Oct.  (presses  on  to  MAX.)  Come,  General!  let  us  go.  It 
is  late. 

Ter.  One  Piccolomini  only  has  signed. 

Iso.  (pointing  to  MAX.)  Look!  that  is  your  man,  that 
statue  there,  who  has  had  neither  eye,  ear,  nor  tongue  for 
us  the  whole  evening. 

[MAX  receives  the  paper  from  TERTSKY,  which  he 
looks  upon  vacantly. 

SCENE  XIV.— ( To  these  enter  ILLO /row  the  inner  room.     He' 
has  in  his  hand  the  golden  service-cup,  and  is  extremely 
distempered  with  drinking ;  GOETZ  and  BUTLER  follow 
him,  endeavouring  to  keep  him  back.) 
Illo.  What  do  you  want  ?    Let  me  go. 
Goetz  and  But.  Drink  no  more,  Illo  7  For  heaven's  sake, 
drink  no  more. 

Illo.  (goes  up  to  OCTAVIO,  and  shakes  him  cordially  by  the 
hand,  and  then  drinks.)  Octavio!  I  b'ring  this  to  you! '  Let 
all  grudge  be  drowned  in  this  friendly  bowl!  I  know  well 
enough,  ye  never  loved  me  -Devil  take  me! — and  I  never 
loved  you!— I  am  always  even  with  people  in  that  way! — 
Let  what's  past,  be  past — that  is,  you  understand — for- 
gotten! I  esteem  you  infinitely.  (Embracing  him  re- 
peatedly.) You  have  not  a  dearer  friend  on  earth  than  I— 


310  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

but  that  you  know.    The  fellow  that  cries  rogue  to  you 
calls  me  villain — and  I'll  strangle  him! — my  dear  friend! 

Ter.  (whispering  to  him.)  Art  in  thy  senses  f  For  heaven's 
sake,  Illo!  think  where  you  are. 

Illo.  (aloud.")  What  do  you  mean?  There  are  rone  but 
friends  here,  are  there  ?  (Looks  round  the  whole  circle  with 
a  jolly  and  triumphant  air.)  Not  a  sneaker  among  us,  thank 
heaven ! 

Ter.  (to  BUTLER,  eagerly.)  Take  him  off  with  you,  force 
him  off,  I  entreat  you,  Butler ! 

But.  (to  ILLO.)  Field  Marshal !  a  word  with  you. 

[Leads  him  to  the  side-board. 

Illo.  (cordially.)  A  thousand  for  one;  Fill — Fill  it  once 
more  up  to  the  brim. — To  this  gallant  man's  health ! 

Iso.  (to  MAX.  who  all  the  while  has  been  staring  on  the 
paper  with  fixed  but  vacant  eyes.)  Slow  and  sure,  my  noble 
brother  f — Hast  parsed  it  all  yet  I — Some  words  yet  to  go 
through  ? — Ha  ? 

Max.  (waking  as  from  a  dream.)  What  am  I  to  do? 

Ter.  and  at  the  same  time  ISOLANI.   Sign  your  name. 

[OcxAVio  directs  his  eyes  on  him  with  intense  anxiety. 

Max.  (returns  the  paper.)  Let  it  stay  till  to-morrow.  It 
is  business— to-day  I  am  not  sufficiently  collected.  Send  it 
to  me  to-morrow. 

Ter.  Nay,  collect  yourself  a  little. 

Iso.  Awake,  man!  awake! — Come,  thy  signature,  and 
have  done  with  it!  What ?  Thou  art  the  youngest  in  the 
whole  company,  and  wouldest  be  wiser  than  all  of  us 
together?  Look  there!  thy  father  has  signed — we  all 
have  signed. 

Ter.  (to  OCTAVIO.)  Use  your  influence.    Instruct  him. 

Oct.  My  son  is  at  the  age  of  discretion. 

Illo.  (leaves  the  service-cup  on  the  side-board.)  What's  the 
dispute  ? 

Ter.  He  declines  subscribing  the  paper. 

Max.  I  say,  it  may  as  well  stay  till  to-morrow. 

Illo.  It  cannot,  stay.  We  have  all  subscribed  to  it — and 
so  must  you. — You  must  subscribe. 

Max.  Illo,  good  night! 

Illo.  No  you  come  not  off  so!  The  Duke  shall  learn 
who  are  his  friends.  [All  collect  round  ILLO  and  MAX. 

Max.  What  my  sentiments  are  towards  the  Duke,  the 
Duke  knows,  every  one  knows — what  need  of  this  wild 
stuff? 

Illo.  This  is  the  thanks  the  Duke  gets  for  his  partiality 
to  Italians  and  foreigners. — Us  Bohemians  he  holds  for 
little  better  than  dullards — nothing  pleases  him  but 
what's  outlandish. 

Tert.  (in  extreme  embarrassment,  to  the  commander,  who  at 
ILLO'S  words  gave  a  sudden  start,  as  preparing  to  resent  them.) 
It  is  the  wine  that  speaks,  and  not  his  reason.  Attend 
not  to  him,  I  entreat  you. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  311 

Iso.  (with  a  bitter  laugh.)  Wine  invents  nothing:  it  only 
tattles. 

lllo.  He  who  is  not  with  me  is  against  me.  Your  tender 
consciences !  Unless  they  can  slip  out  by  a  back  door,  by 
a  puny  proviso 

Tert.  (interrupting  him.)  He  is  stark  mad — don't  listen 
to  him ! 

lllo.  (raising  his  voice  to  fhe  highest  pitch.)  Unless  they 
can  slip  out  by  a  proviso. — What  of  the  proviso  ?  The 
devil  take  this  proviso  ! 

Max.  (has  his  attention  roused,  and  looks  again  into  the 
paper.)  What  is  there  here  then  of  such  perilous  import  ? 
You  make  me  curious— I  must  look  closer  at  i  fc. 

Tert.  (in  a  low  voice  to  ILLO.)  What  are  you  doing,  lllo? 
You  are  ruining  us. 

Tief.  (to  KOLATTO.)  Ay,  ay!  I  observed,  that  before  we 
sat  down  to  supper,  it  was  read  diiferently. 

Goetz.  Why,  I  seemed  to  think  so  too. 

Isol.  What  do  I  care  for  that  ?  Where  there  stand  other 
names,  mine  can  stand  too. 

Tief.  Before  supper  there  teas  a  certain  proviso  therein, 
or  short  clause  concerning  our  duties  to  the  Emperor. 

Butler,  (to  one  of  the  Commanders.)  For  shame,  for 
shame!  Bethink  you.  What  is  the  main  business  here  ? 
The  question  now  is,  whether  we  shall  keep  our  General, 
or  let  him  retire.  One  must  not  take  these  things  too 
nicely  and  over-scrupulously. 

Isol.  (to  one  of  the  Generals.)  D:d  the  Duke  make  any  of 
these  provisos  when  he  gave  you  your  regiment  ? 

Tert.  (to  GOETZ.)  Or  when  he  gave  you  the  office  of  ar- 
my-purvey ancer,  which  brings  you  in  yearly  a  thousand 
pistoles ! 

lllo.  He  is  a  rascal  who  makes  us  out  to  be  rogues.  If 
there  be  any  one  that  wants  satisfaction,  let  him  say  so, — 
I  am  his  man. 

Tief.  Softly,  softly !  'Twas  but  a  word  or  two. 

Max.  (having  read  the  paper  gives  it  back.)  Till  to-morrow, 
therefore ! 

lllo.  (stammering  with  rage  and  fury,  loses  all  command  over 
himself,  and  presents  the  paper  to  MAX.  with  one  hand,  and  his 
sword  in  the  other.)  Subscribe — Judas  ! 

Isol.  Out  upon  you,  lllo ! 

Oct.  Tert.  But.  (all  together.)  Down  with  the  sword! 

Max.  (rushes  on  him  and  suddenly  disarms  him,  then  to 
COUNT  TERTSKY.)  Take  him  off  to  bed. 

[M.AX.  leaves  the  stage.  ILLO  cursing  and  raving  is  held 
back  by  some  of  the  officers,  and  amidst  a  universal 
confusion  the  curtain  drops. 


312  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OK  THE 


ACT  in. 

SCENE  I. — A  Chamber  in  PiccOLOMiNi'slfanstow. — It  is  Night. 
OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI.    A  Valet  de  Chambre,  with  lights. 

Oct.  And    when  my  son  comes  in,   conduct  him 

What  is  the  hour?  [hither. 

Valet.  >Tis  on  the  point  of  morning. 

Oct.  Set  down  the  light.    We  mean  not  to  undress. 
You  may  retire  to  sleep. 

[Exit  Valet.  OCTAVIO  paces,  musing,  across  the  cham- 
ber; MAX.  PICCOLOMINI  enters  unobserved,  and 
looks  at  his  father  Jor  some  moments  in  silence. 

Max.  Art  thou  offended  with  me  ?     Heaven  knows 
That  odious  business  was  no  fault  of  mine. 
'Tis  true,  indeed,  I  saw  thy  signature. 
What  thou  hadst  sanctioned,  should  not,  it  might  seem, 
Have  come  amiss  to  me.    But — 'tis  my  nature — 
Thou  know'st,  in  such  matters  I  must  follow 
My  own  light,  not  another's. 

Oct.  (goes  up  to  him  and  embraces  him.)     Follow  ii, 
O  follow  it  still  further,  my  best  son  ? 
To-night,  dear  boy !    it-hath  more  faithfully 
Guided  thee  than  the  example  of  thy  father. 

Max.  Declare  thyself  less  darkly. 

Oct.  I  will  do  so. 

For  after  what  has  taken  place  this  night, 
There  must  remain  no  secrets  'twixt  us  two. 

[Both  seat  themselves. 
Max.  Piccolomini !  what  thinkest  thou  of 
The  oath  that  was  sent  round  for  signatures  ? 

Max.  I  hold  it  for  a  thing  of  harmless  import, 
Although  I  love  not  these  set  declarations. 

Oot.  And  on  no  other  ground  hadst  thou  refused 
The  signature  they  fain  had  wrested  from  thee  ? 

Max.  It  was  a  serious  business 1  was  absent — 

The  affair  itself  seemed  not  so  urgent  to  me. 

Oct.  Be  open,  Max.     Thou  hadst  then  no  suspicion  f 

Max.  Suspicion!  what  suspicion  f    Not  the  least. 

Oct.  Thank  thy  good  angel,  Piccolomiui : 
He  drew  thee  back  unconscious  from  the  abyss. 

Max.  I  know  not  what  thou  meanest. 

Oct.  I  will  tell  thee. 

Fain  would  they  have  extorted  from  thee,  son, 
The  sanction  of  thy  name  to  villainy; 
Yea,  with  a  single  flourish  of  thy  pen, 
Made  thee  renounce  thy  duty  and  thy  honour ! 

Max.  (rises.)  Octavio ! 

Oct.  Patience!  Seat  yourself.  Much  yet 

Hast  thou  to  hear  from  me,  friend! — hast  for  years 
Lived  iu  incomprehensible  illusion. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  313 

Before  thine  eyes  is  Treason  drawing  out 
As  black  a  web  as  e'er  was  spun  for  venom  : 
A  power  of  hell  o'erclouds  thy  understanding. 
I  dare  no  longer  stand  in  silence — dare 
No  longer  see  thee  wandering  on  in  darkness, 
Nor  pluck  the  bandage  from  thine  eyes. 

Max.  My  father 

Yet,  ere  thou  speakest,  a  moment's  pause  of  thought ! 
If  your  disclosures  should  appear  to  be 
Conjectures  only — and  almost  I  fear 
They  will  be  nothing  further — spare  them  !  I 
Am  not  in  that  collected  mood  at  present, 
That  I  could  listen  to  them  quietly. 

Oct.  The  deeper  cause  thou  hast  to  hate  this  light, 
The  more  impatient  cause  have  I,  my  sou, 
To  force  it  on  thee.     To  the  innocence 
And  wisdom  of  thy  heart  I  coukl  have  trusted  thee 
With  calm  assurance — but  I  see  the  net 
Preparing — and  it  is  thy  heart  itself 
Alarms  me  for  thine  innocence — that  secret, 

[Fixing  his  eye  steadfastly  on  his  son's  face. 
Which  thou  concealest,  forces  mine  from  me. 

[  MAX.  attempts  to  answer,  but  hesitates,  and  casts  his  eyes 
to  the  (/round  embarrassed. 

Oct.  (after  a  pause.)  Know,  then,  they  are  duping  thee  !— 

a  most  foul  game 

With  thee  aud  with  us  all — nay,  hear  me  calmly — 
The  Duke  even  now  is  playing.    Hs  assumes 
The  mask,  as  if  he  would  forsake  the  army ; 
And  in  this  moment  makes  he  preparations 
That  army  from  the  Emperor — to  steal, 
And  carry  it  over  to  the  enemy ! 

Max.  That  low  Priest's  legend  I  know  well,  but  did  not 
Expect  to  hear  it  from  thy  mouth. 

Oct.  That  mouth, 

From  which  thou  nearest  it  at  this  present  moment, 
Doth  warrant  thee  that  it  is  no  Priest's  legend. 

Max.  How  mere  a  maniac  they  supposed  the  Duke; 
What,  he  can  meditate  ? — the  Duke  ? — can  dream 
That  he  can  lure  away  full  thirty  thousand 
Tried  troops  and  true,  all  honourable  soldiers, 
More  than  a  thousand  noblemen  among  them, 
From  oaths,  from  duty,  from  their  honour  lure  them, 
Aud  make  them  all  unanimous  to  do 
A  deed  that  brands  them  scoundrels  I 

Oct.  Such  a  deed, 

With  such  a  front  of  infamy,  the  Duke 
No  ways  desires — what  he  requires  of  us 
Fears  a  far  gentler  appellation.    Nothing 
He  wishes,  but  to  give  the  Empire  peace. 
And  so,  because  the  Emperor  hates  this  peace, 
Therefore  the  Dake— the  Duke  will  force  him  t»  it. 
N 


314  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

All  parts  of  the  Empire  will  he  pacify, 
And  for  his  trouble  will  retain  in  payment 
(What  he  has  already  in  his  gripe)— Bohemia! 

Max.  Has  he,  Octavio,  merited  of  us, 
That  we — that  we  should  think  so  vilely  of  him  ? 

Oct.  What  we  would  think  is  not  the  question  here. 
The  affair  speaks  for  itself— and  clearest  proofs ! 
Hear  me,  my  son — 'tis  not  unknown  to  thee, 
In  what  ill  credit  with  the  Court  we  stand. 
But  little  dost  thou  know,  or  guess,  what  tricks, 
What  base  intrigues,  what  lying  artifices, 
Have  been  employed — for  this  sole  end — to  sow 
Mutiny  in  the  camp !    All  bands  are  loosed — 
Loosed  all  the  bands,  that  link  the  officer 
To  his  liege  Emperor,  all  that  bind  the  soldier 
Affectionately  to  the  citizen. 
Lawless  he  stands,  and  threateningly  beleaguers 
The  state  he's  bound  to  guard.    To  such  a  height 
*Tis  swoln,  that  at  this  hour  the  Emperor 
Before  his  armies— his  own  armies— trembles : 
Yea.  in  his  capital,  his  palace,  fears 
The  traitors'  poniards,  and  is  meditating 

To  hurry  off  and  hide  his  tender  offspring 

Not  from  the  Swedes,  not  from  the  Lutherans —         . 
No !  from  his  own  troops  hide  and  hurry  them ! 

Max.  Cease,  cease !  thou  torturest,  shatterest  me.  1  know 
That  oft  we  tremble  at  an  empty  tenor ; 
But  the  false  phantasm  brings  a  real  misery. 

Oct.  It  is  no  phantasm.    An  intestine  war, 
Of  all  the  most  unnatural  and  cruel, 
Will  burst  out  into  flames,  if  instantly 
We  do  not  fly  and  stifle  it.    The  Generals 
Are  many  of  them  long  ago  won  over ; 
The  subalterns  are  vacillating — whole 
Regiments  and  garrisons  are  vacillating. 
To  foreigners  our  strongholds  are  entrusted; 
To  that  suspected  Shafgotch  is  the  whole 
Force  of  Silesia  given  up  :  to  Tertsky 
Five  regiments,  foot  and  horse— to  Isolani, 
To  Illo,  Kinsky,  Butler,  the  best  troops. 

Max.  Likewise  to  both  of  us. 

Oct.  Because  the  Duke 

Believes  he  has  secured  us— means  to  lure  us 
Still  further  on  by  splendid  promises. 
To  me  he  portions  forth  the  princedoms,  Glatz 
And  Sagan  ;  and  too  plain  I  see  the  angel 
With  which  he  doubts  not  to  catch  thee. 

Max.  No!  no! 

I  tell  thee— no! 

Oct.  O  open  yet  thine  eyes ! 

And  to  what  purpose  think'st  thou  he  has  called  us 
Hither  to  Pilsen  ?— to  avail  himself 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  315 

Of  our  advice? — O  when  did  Friedland  ever 

Need  our  advice  ? — Be  calm,  aud  listen  to  me. 

To  sell  ourselves  are  we  called  hither,  aud 

Decline  we  that — to  be  his  hostages. 

Therefore  doth  noble  Galas  stand  aloof; 

Thy  father,  too,  thou  would'st  not  have  seen  here, 

If  higher  duties  had  not  held  him  fettered. 

Max.  He  makes  no  secret  of  it — needs  make  none — 
That  we're  called  hither  for  his  sake — he  owns  it. 
He  needs  our  aidance  to  maintain  himself—- 
He did  so  much  for  us  ;  and  'tis  but  fair 
That  we  too  should  do  somewhat  now  for  him. 

Oct.  And  know'st  thou  what  it  is  which  we  must  do  ? 
That  Illo's  drunken  mood  betrayed  it  to  thee. 
Bethink  thyself — what  hast  thou  heard,  what  seen  ? 
The  counterfeited  paper — the  omission 
Of  that  particular  clause,  so  full  of  meaning, 
Does  it  not  prove,  that  they  would  bind  us  down 
To  nothing  good  If 

Max.  That  counterfeited  paper 

Appear  to  me  no  other  than  a  trick 
Of  Illo's  own  device.    These  underhand 
Traders  in  great  men's  interests  ever  use 
To  urge  and  hurry  all  things  to  the  extreme. 
They  see  the  Duke  at  variance  with  the  court, 
And  fondly  think  to  serve  him,  when  they  widen 
The  breach  irreparably.    Trust  me,  father, 
The  Duke  knows  nothing  of  all  this. 

Oct.  It  grieves  me 

That  I  must  dash  to  earth,  that  I  must  shatter 
A  faith  so  specious ;  but  I  may  not  spare  thee  ! 
For  this  is  not  a  time  for  tenderness. 
Thou  must  take  measures,  speedy  ones — must  act. 
I  therefore  will  confess  to  thee,  that  all 
Which  I've  entrusted  to  thee  now — that  all 
Which  seems  to  thee  so  unbelievable, 
That— yes,  I  will  tell  thee— (a  pause)— Max !  I  had  it  all 
From  his  own  mouth — from  the  Duke's  mouth  I  had  it. 

Max.  (in  excessive  agitation.)  No ! — no ! — never ! 

Oct.  Himself  confided  to  me 

What  I,  'tis  true,  had  long  before  discovered 
By  other  means — himself  confided  to  me, 
That  'twas  his  settled  plan  to  join  the  Swedes ; 
And,  at  the  head  of  the  united  armies, 
Compel  the  Emperor 

Max.  He  is  passionate, 

The  Court  has  stung  him — he  is  sore  all  over 
With  injuries  and  affronts ;  and  in  a  moment 
Of  irritation,  what  if  he,  for  once, 
Forgot  himself?    He's  an  impetuous  man. 

Oct.  Nay,  in  cold  blood  he  did  confess  this  to  me: 
And  having  construed  my  astonishment 


316  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Into  a  scruple  of  his  power,  lie  shewed  me 
His  written  evidences — shewed  me  letters, 
Both  from  the  Saxon  and  the  Swede,  that  gave 
Promise  of  aidance,  and  defin'd  the  amount. 

Max.  It  cannot  be ! — can  not  be ! — can  not  be ! 
Dost  thou  not  see,  it  cannot ! 
Thou  wouldest  of  necessity  have  shewn  him 
Such  horror,  such  deep  loathing — that  or  he 
Had  taken  thee  for  his  better  genius,  or 
Thou  stood'st  not  now  a  living  man  before  me — 

Oct.  I  have  laid  open  my  objections  to  him, 
Dissuaded  him  with  pressing  earnestness; 
But  my  abhorrence,  the  full  sentiment 
Of  my  whole  heart — that  I  have  still  kept  sacred 
To  my  own  consciousness. 

Max.  And  ihou  hast  been 

So  treacherous  ?    That  looks  not  like  my  father! 
I  trusted  not  thy  words,  when  thou  didst  tell  me 
Evil  of  him  ;   much  less  can  I  now  do  it, 
That  thou  calunmiatest  thy  own  self. 

Oct.  I  did  not  thrust  myself  into  his  secresy. 

Max.  Uprightness  merited  his  confidence. 

Oct.  He  was  no  longer  worthy  of  sincerity. 

Max.  Dissimulation,  sure,  was  still  less  worthy 
Of  thee,Octavio! 

Oct.  Gave  I  him  a  cause 

To  entertain  a  scruple  of  my  honour  ? 

Max.  That  he  did  not,  evinced  his  confidence 

Oct.  Dear  son,  it  is  not  always  possible 
Still  to  preserve  that  infant  purity 
Which  the  voice  teaches  in  our  inmost  heart. 
Still  in  alarum,  for  ever  on  the  watch 
Against  the  wiles  of  wicked  men,  e'en  Virtue 
Will  sometimes  bear  away  her  outward  robes 
Soiled  m  the  wrestle  with  Iniquity. 
This  is  the  curse  of  every  evil  deed, 
That,  propagating  still,  it  brings  forth  evil. 
I  do  not  cheat  my  better  soul  with  sophisms : 
I  but  perform  my  orders ;  the  Emperor 
Prescribes  my  conduct  to  me.     Dearest  boy, 
Far  better  were  it,  doubtless,  if  we  all        « 
Obeyed  the  heart  at  all  times;  but  so  doing, 
In  this  our  present  sojourn  with  bad  men, 
We  must  abandon  many  an  honest  object. 
'Tis  now  our  call  to  serve  the  Emperor, 
By  what  means  he  can  best  be  served — the  heart 
May  whisper  what  it  will — this  is  our  call ! 

Max.  It  seems  a  thing  appointed,  that  to-day 
I  should  not  comprehend,  not  understand  thee, 
The  Duke,  thou  say'st,  did  honestly  pour  out 
His  heart  to  thee,  but  for  an  evil  purpose; 
And  thou  dishonestly  hast  cheated  him 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  317 

For  a  good  purpose !   Silence,  I  entreat  thee — 
My  Mend  thou  stealest  not  from  me — 
Let  me  not  lose  my  father ! 

Oct.  (suppressing  resentment.}  As  yet  thouknow'st  not  all, 

my  son.     I  have 
Yet  somewhat  to  disclose  to  thee.  [After  a  pause. 

Duke  Friedland 

Hath  made  his  preparations.    He  relies 
Upon  his  stars.     He  deems  us  unprovided, 
And  thinks  to  fall  upon  us  by  surprise. 
Yea,  in  his  dream  of  hope,  he  grasps  already 
The  golden  circle  in  his  hand.    He  errs. 
We  too  have  been  in  action — he  but  grasps 
His  evil  fate,  most  evil,  most  mysterious ! 

Max.  O  nothing  rash,  my  sire  1    By  all  that's  good 
Let  me  invoke  thee — no  precipitation ! 

Oct.  With  light  tread  stole  he  on  his  evil  way, 
And  light  of  tread  hath  Vengeance  stole  on  after  him. 
Unseen  he  stands  already,  dark  behind  him — 
But  one  step  more — he  shudders  in  her  grasp ! 

Thou  hast  seen  Questenberg  with  me.    As  yet 
Thou  know'st  but  his  ostensible  commission. 
He  brought  with  him  a  private  one,  my  son ! 
And  that  was  for  me  only. 

Max.  May  I  know  it  ? 

Oct.  (seizes  the  patent.)  Max!        [A  pause. 

In  this  disclosure  place  I  in  thy  hands 

The  Empire's  welfare  and  thy  father's  life. 
Dear  to  thy  inmost  heart  is  Walleustein  : 
A  powerful  tie  of  love,  of  veneration, 
Hath  knit  thee  to  him  from  thy  earliest  youth. 
Thou  nourishest  the  wish. — O  let  me  still 
Anticipate  thy  loitering  confidence ! 
The  hope  thou  nourishest  to  knit  thyself 
Yet  closer  to  him 

Max.  Father 

Oct.  O  my  son ! 

I  trust  thy  heart  undoubtingly.    But  am  I 
Equally  sure  of  thy  collectedness  ? 
Wilt  thou  be  able,  with  calm  countenance, 
To  enter  this  man's  presence,  when  that  I 
Have  trusted  to  thee  his  whole  fate  ? 

Max.  According 

As  thou  dost  trust  me,  father,  with  his  crime. 

[OcTAVio  takes  a  paper  out  of  his  escritoire,  and  gives  it 
to  him. 

Mav.  What  ?  how  ?  a  full  Imperial  patent ! 

Oct.  Read  it. 

Max.  (just  glances  on  it.)  Duke  Friedland  sentenced  and 
condemned ! 

Oct.  Even  so. 


318  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Max.  (throws  down  the  paper.)  O  this  is  too  much!     O  un- 
happy error ! 

Oct.  Read  on.    Collect  thyself. 

Max.  (after  he  has  read  further,  with  a  look  of  affright  and 
astonishment  on  his  father.)  How!  what!  Thou!  thou! 

Oct.  But  for  the  present  moment,  till  the  King 
Of  Hungary  may  safely  join  the  army, 
Is  the  command  assigned  to  me. 

Max.  And  think'st  thou, 

Dost  thou  believe,  that  thou  wilt  tear  it  from  him  f 
O  never  hope  it ! — Father!  father!  father ! 
An  inauspicious  office  is  enjoined  thee. 
This  paper  here — this !  and  wilt  thou  enforce  it 
The  mighty,  in  the  middle  of  his  host, 
Surrounded  by  his  thousands,  him  would' st  thou 
Disarm — degrade!     Thou  art  lost,  both  thou  and  all  of  us. 

Oct.  What  hazard  I  incur  thereby,  I  know 
In  the  great  hand  of  God  I  stand.    The  Almighty 
Will  cover  with  his  shield  the  Imperial  house, 
And  shatter,  in  his  wrath,  the  work  of  darkness. 
The  Emperor  hath  true  servants  still ;  and,  even 
Here  in  the  camp,  there  are  enough  brave  men, 
Who  for  the  good  cause  will  fight  gallantly. 
The  faithful  have  been  warned — the  dangerous 
Are  closely  watched.    I  wait  but  the  first  step, 
And  then  immediately 

Max.  What !  on  suspicion  I 

Immediately  ? 

Oct.               The  Emperor  is  no  tyrant. 
The  deed  alone  he'll  punish,  not  the  wish. 
The  Duke  hath  yet  bis  destiny  in  his  power. 
Let  him  but  leave  the  treason  uncompleted, 
He  will  be  silently  displaced  from  office, 
And  make  way  to  his  Emperor's  royal  son. 
An  honourable  exile  to  his  castles 
Will  be  a  benefaction  to  him  rather 
Than  punishment.     But  the  first  open  step 

Max.  What  callest  thou  such  a  step  f    A  wicked  step 
Ne'er  will  he  take ;  but  thou  mightest  easily, 
Yea,  thou  hast  done  it,  misinterpret  him. 

Oct.  Nay,  howsoever  punishable  were 
Duke  Friedland's  purposes,  yet  still  the  steps 
Which  he  hath  taken  openly,  permit 
A  mild  construction.    It  is  my  intention 
To  leave  this  paper  wholly  uninforced 
Till  some  act  is  committed  which  convicts  him 
Of  an  high-treason,  without  doubt  or  plea, 
And  that  shall  sentence  him. 

Max.  But  who  the  judge  f 

Oct.  Thyself. 

Max.  For  ever,  then,  this  paper  will  lie  idle. 

Oct.  Too  soon,  I  fear,  its  powers  must  all  bo  proved. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  319 

After  the  counter-promise  of  this  evening, 

It  cannot  be  but  he  must  deem  himself 

Secure  of  the  majority  with  us ; 

And  of  the  army's  general  sentiment 

He  hath  a  pleasing  proof  in  that  petition 

Which  thou  delivered'st  to  him  from  the  regiments. 

Add  this  too— I  have  letters  that  the  Rhinegrave 

Hath  changed  his  route,  and  travels  by  forced  marches 

To  the  Bohemian  Forest.    What  this  purports, 

Remains  unknown  ;  and,  to  confirm  suspicion, 

This  night  a  Swedish  nobleman  arrived  here. 

Max.  I  have  thy  word.    Thon'lt  not  proceed  to  action 
Before  thou  hast  convinced  me — me  myself. 

Oct.  Is  it  possible  ?    Still,  after  all  thou  know'st, 
Canst  thou  believe  still  in  his  innocence  ? 

Max.  (with  enthusiasm.)  Thy  judgment  may  mistake;  my 
heart  cannot.  [Moderates  his  voice  and  manner. 

These  reasons  might  expound  thy  spirit  or  mine  ; 
But  they  expound  not  Friedlaud — I  have  faith : 
For  as  he  knits  his  fortunes  to  the  stars, 
Even  so  doth  he  resemble  them  in  secret, 
Wonderful,  still  inexplicable  courses  ! 
Trust  me,  they  do  him  wrong.    All  will  be  solved. 
These  smokes,  at  once,  will  kindle  into  flame — 
The  edges  of  this  black  and  stormy  cloud 
Will  brighten  suddenly,  and  we  shall  view 
The  Unapproachable  glide  out  in  splendour. 

Oct.  1  will  await  it. 

SCENE  II.— OCTAVIO  and  MAX.  as  before.    To  them  the  Valet 
of  the  Chamber. 

Oct.  How  now,  then  I 

Vol.  A  dispatch  is  at  the  door. 

Oct.  So  early  ?    From  whom  comes  he  then  ?    Who  is  it  ? 

Val.  That  he  refused  to  tell  me. 

Oct.  Lead  him  in : 

And,  hark  you — let  it  not  transpire. 

[Exit  Valet — the  Cornet  steps  in. 

Oct.  Ha!  Cornet — is  it  you  ?  and  from  Count  Galas  f 
Give  me  your  letters. 

Cor.  The  Lieutenant-general 

Trusted  it  not  to  letters. 

Oct.  And  what  is  it? 

Cor.  He  bade  me  tell  you — Dare  I  speak  openly  here  ? 

Oct.  My  son  knows  all. 

Cor.  We  have  him. 

Oct.  Whom  f 

Cor.  Sesina, 

The  old  negotiator. 

Oct.  (eagerly.)  And  you  have  him  ? 

Cor.  In  the  Bohemian  Forest  Captain  Mohrbrand 


320  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Found  and  secured  him  yester  morning  early : 
He  was  proceeding  then  to  Kegenspurg, 
And  on  him  were  dispatches  for  the  Swede. 

Oct.  And  the  dispatches 

Cor.  The  Lieutenant-general 

Sent  them  that  instant  to  Vienna,  and 
The  prisoner  with  them. 

Oct.  This  is,  indeed,  a  tiding! 

That  fellow  is  a  precious  casket  to  us, 
Enclosing  weighty  things. — Was  much  found  on  him  ? 

Cor.  I  think,  six  packets,  with  Count  Tertsky's  arms. 

Oct.  None  in  the  Duke's  owu  hand  I 

Cor.  Not  that  I  know. 

Oct.  And  old  Sesina  ? 

Cor.  He  was  sorely  frightened, 

When  it  was  told  him  he  must  to  Vienna. 
But  the  Count  Altriuger  bade  "him  take  heart, 
Would  he  but  make  a  full  and  free  confession. 

Oct.  Is  Altringer  then  with  your  Lord  ?  I  heard 
That  he  lay  sick  at  Liuz.  * 

Cor.  These  three  days  past 

He's  with  my  master,  the  Lieutenant-general, 
At  Fraueuburg.    Already  have  they  sixty 
Small  companies  together,  chosen  men ; 
Respectfully  they  greet  you  with  assurances, 
That  they  are  only  waiting  your  commands. 

Oct.  In  a  few  days  may  great  events  take  place. 
And  when  must  you  return  ? 

Cor.  I  wait  your  orders. 

Oct.  Remain  till  evening. 

[Cornet  signifies  his  assent  and  obeisance,  and  is  going. 

Oct.  No  one  saw  you — ha  ? 

Cor.  No  living  creature.    Through  the  cloister  wicket 
The  Capuchins,  as  usual,  let  me  in. 

Oct.  Go,  rest  your  limbs,  and  keep  yourself  concealed. 
I  hold  it  probable,  that  yet  ere  evening 
I  shall  dispatch  you.     The  development 
Of  this  affair  approaches :  ere  the  d:i  y, 
That  even  now  is  dawning  in  the  heaven, 
Ere  this  eventful  day  hath  set,  the  lot 
That  must  decide  our  fortunes  will  be  drawn.  [ExitCornet. 

SCENE  III.—  OCTAVIO  and  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

Oct.  Well — and  what  now,  son  ?    All  will  soon  be  clear; 
For  all,  I'm  certain,  went  through  that  Sesina. 

Max.  (ivho  through  the  whole  of  the  foregoing  scene  has  been 
in  a  violent  and  visible  struggle  of  feelings,  at  length  starts 
as  one  resolved.)  I  will  procure  me  light  a  shorter  way. 
Farewell. 

Oct.  Where  now  ? — Remain  here. 

Max.  To  tho  Duke. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  321 

Oct.  (alarmed.)  What 

Max.  (returning.}  If  thou  bast  believed  that  I  shall  act 

A  part  in  this  thy  play 

Thou  has  miscalculated  on  me  grievously. 

My  way  must  be  straight  on.    True  with  the  tongue, 

False  with  the  heart— I  may  not,  cannot  be  : 

Nor  can  I  suffer  that  a  man  should  trust  me — 

As  his  friend  trust  me — and  then  lull  my  conscience 

With  such  low  pleas  as  these  : —  "I  asked  him  not — 

He  did  it  all  at  his  own  hazard — and 

My  mouth  has  never  lied  to  him." — No,  no ! 

What  a  friend  takes  me  for,  that  I  must  be. 

-  I'll  to  the  Duke ;  ere  yet  this  day  is  ended 

Will  I  demand  of  him  that  he  do  save 

His  good  name  from  the  world,  and  with  one  stride 

Break  through  and  rend  this  fine-spun  web  of  yours. 

He  can,  he  will!  — /  still  am  his  believer. 

Yet  I'll  not  pledge  myself,  but  that  those  letters 

May  furnish  you,  perchance,  with  proofs  against  him. 

How  far  nny  not  this  Tertsky  have  proceeded — 

WThat  may  not  he  himself  too  have  permitted 

Himself  to  do,  to  snare  the  enemy, 

The  laws  of  war  excusing  ?    Nothing,  save 

His  own  mouth  shall  convict  him — nothing  less! 

And  face  to  face  will  I  go  question  him. 

Oct.  Thou  wilt  \ 

Max.  I  will,  as  sure  as  this  heart  beats. 

Oct.  I  have,  indeed,  miscalculated  on  thee. 
I  calculated  on  a  prudent  son, 
Who  would  have  blessed  the  hand  beneficent 
That  plucked  him  back  from  the  abyss — and  lo! 
A  fascinated  being  I  discover, 
Whom  his  two  eyes  befool,  whom  passion  wilders, 
Whom  not  the  broadest  light  of  noon  can  heal. 
Go,  question  him ! — Be  mad  enough,  I  pray  thee. 
The  purpose  of  thy  father,  of  thy  Emperor, 
Go,  give  it  up  free  booty ! — Force  me,  drive  me 
To  an  open  breach  before  the  time.    And  now, 
Now  that  a  miracle  of  heaven  had  guarded 
My  secret  purpose  even  to  this  hour, 
And  laid  to  sleep  Suspicion's  piercing  eyes, 
Let  me  have  lived  to  see  that  mine  own  son, 
With  frantic  enterprise,  annihilates 
My  toilsome  labours  and  state  policy. 

Max.  Aye — this  state-policy?    O  how  I  curse  it ! 
You  will  some  time,  with  your  state-policy, 
Compel  him  to  the  measure :  it  may  happen, 
Because  you  are  determined  that  he  is  guilty, 
Guilty  ye'll  make  him.    All  retreat  cut  off, 
You  close  up  every  outlet,  hem  him  in 
Narrower  and  narrower,  till  at  length  ye  force  him— 
Yes  ye,— Deforce  him,  in  his  desperation, 

N* 


•ft — — 

322  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

To  set  fire  to  his  prison.    Father!    Father! 
That  never  can  end  well — it  cannot — will  not! 
And  let  it  be  decided  as  it  may, 
I  see  with  boding  heart  the  near  approach 
Of  an  ill-starred,  uublest  catastrophe. 
For  this  great  Monarch-spirit,  if  he  fall, 
Will  drag  a  world  into  the  ruin  with  him. 
And  as  a  ship  (that  midway  on  the  ocean 
Takes  fire)  at  once,  and  with  a  thunder-burst 
Explodes,  and  with  itself  shoots  out  its  crew 
In  smoke  and  ruin  betwixt  sea  and  heaven ; 
So  will  he,  falling,  draw  down  in  his  fall 
All  us,  who' re  fixed  and  mortised  to  his  fortune. 
Deem  of  it  what  thou  wilt ;  but  pardon  me, 
That  I  must  bear  me  on  in  my  own  way. 
All  must  remain  pure  betwixt  him  and  me ; 
And,  ere  the  day-light  dawns,  it  must  be  known 
Which  I  must  lose — my  father,  or  my  friend. 

[During  h'wexit  the  curtain  drops. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — A  Room  fitted  up  for  astrological  Labours,  and  pro- 
vided with  celestial  Charts,  with  Globes,  Telescopes,  Quad- 
rants, and  other  mathematical  Instruments. — Seven  Colos- 
sal Figures,  representing  the  Planets,  each  with  a  trans- 
parent Star  of  a  different  Colour  on  its  Head,  stand  in  a 
Semicircle  in  the  Background,  so  that  Mars  and  Saturn  are 
nearest  the  Eye. — The  Remainder  of  the  Scene,  and  its  Dis- 
positions, is  given  in  the  Fourth  Scene  of  the  Second  Act. — 
There  must  be  a  Cur  fain  over  the  Figures,  which  may  be 
dropped,  and  conceal  them  on  Occasions. 

[In  the  Fifth  Scene  of  this  Act  it  must  be  dropped;  but,  in  the 
Seventh  Scene,  it  muntbe  again  drawnup  wholly  or  in  part.] 

WALLENSTEIN  at  a  black  Table,  on  which  a  Speculum  Astro- 
logicum  is  described  with  Chalk.  SENI  is  taking  Observa- 
tions through  a  window. 

Wai.  All  well — and  now  let  it  be  ended,  Seni. — Come 
The  dawn  commences,  and  Mars  rules  the  hour. 
We  must  give  o'er  the  operation.    Come, 
We  know  enough. 

Sent.  Your  Highness  must  permit  me 

Just  to  contemplate  Venns.    She's  now  rising : 
Like  as  a  sun,  so  shines  she  In  the  east. 

Wai.  She  is  at  present  in  her  perigee, 
And  shoots  down  now  her  strongest  influences. 

[Contemplating  the  figure  an  the  table. 
Auspicious  aspect!  fateful  in  conjunction, 
At  length  the  mighty  three  corradiate; 
And  the  two  stars  of  blessing,  Jupiter 
And  Venus,  take  between  them  the  malignant 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  323 

Slily-malicious  Mars,  and  thus  compel 
Into  my  service  that  old  mischief-founder: 
For  long  he  viewed  me  hostilely,  and  ever 
With  beam  oblique,  or  perpendicular, 
Now  in  the  Quartile,  now  in  the  Secundan, 
Shot  his  red  lightnings  at  my  stars,  disturbing 
Their  blessed  influences  and  sweet  aspects. 
Now  they  have  conquered  tho  old  enemy, 
And  bring  him  in  the  heavens  a  prisoner  to  me. 

Sent,  (who  has  come  down  from  the  window.}  And  in  a  cor- 
ner house,  your  Highness — think  of  that ! 
That  makes  each  influence  of  double  strength. 

Wai.  And  sun  and  moon,  too,  in  the  Sextile  aspect, 
The  soft  light  with  the  vehement — so  I  love  it. 
SOL  is  the  heart,  LUNA  the  head  of  heaven. 
Bold  be  the  plan,  fiery  the  execution. 

Semi.  And  both  the^migbty  Lumina  by  no 
Maleficus  ali'ronted.    Lo!  Saturnus, 
Innocuous,  powerless,  in  cadente  Domo. 

Wai.  The  empire  of  Saturnus  is  gone  by ; 
Lord  of  the  secret  birth  of  things  is  he ; 
Within  the  lap  of  earth,  and  in  the  depths 
Of  the  imagination  dominates  ; 
And  bis  are  all  things  that  eschew  the  light. 
The  time  is  o'er  of  brooding  and  contrivance ; 
For  Jupiter,  the  lustrous,  lordetb  now, 
And  the  dark  work,  complete  of  preparation, 
He  draws  by  force  into  the  realm  of  light. 
Now  must  we  hasten  on  to  action,  ere 
The  scheme,  and  most  auspicious  positure 
Parts  o'er  my  head,  and  takes  once  more  its  flight ; 
For  the  heavens  journey  still,  and  sojourn  not. 

[  There  are  knocks  at  the  door. 
There's  some  one  knocking  there.    See  who  it  is. 

Ter.  (from  without.}  Open,  and  let  me  in. 

Wai.  Aye— 'tis  Tertsky. 

What  is  there  of  such  urgence?    We  are  busy. 

Tcr.  (from  without.}  Lay  all  aside  at  present,  I  entreat  you. 
It  suffers  no  delaying. 

Wai.  Open,  Seui! 

[  While  SENI  opens  the  door  for  TERTSKY,  WALLENSTEIN 
draws  the  curtain  over  thefijures. 

Ter.  (enters.)  Hast  thou  already  heard  it?    He  is  taken. 
Galas  has  given  him  up  to  the  Emperor. 

[SENI  draws  off  the  black  table,  and  exit. 

SCENE  II. — WALLENSTEIN,  COUNT  TERTSKY. 

Wai.  (to  TERTSKY.)  Who  has  been  taken  ? — Who  is  given 

up  ? 

Ter.  The/  man  who  knows  our  secrets,  who  knows  every 
Negociation  with  the  Swede  and  Saxon, 


324  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Through  whose  hands  all  and  everything  has  passed — 
Wai.   (drawing  back.)    Nay,  not    Sesinaf — Say,    No!    I 

entreat  thee. 

Ter.  All  on  his  road  for  Regenspurg  to  the  Swede 
He  was  plunged  down  upon  by  Galas'  agent, 
Who  had  been  long  in  ainbush,  larking  for  him. 
There  must  have  been  found  on  him  my  whole  packet 
To  Thur,  to  Kinsky,  to  Oxenstirn,  to  Arnheim  : 
All  this  is  in  their  hands ;  they  have  now  an  insight 
Into  the  whole — our  measures,  and  our  motives. 

SCEXE  III. — To  them  enters  ILLO. 

Illo.  (toTESTSKY.)  Has  ho  heard  it  ? 

Ter.  He  has  heard  it. 

Illo.  (to  WALLENSTEIN.)  Thinkest  thou  still 
To  make  thy  peace  with  the  Emperor,  to  regain 
His  confidence  ? — E'en  were  it  now  thy  wish 
To  abandon  all  thy  plans,  yet  still  they  know 
What  thou  hast  wished  ;  then  forwards  thou  must  press  ; 
Retreat  is  now  no  longer  in  thy  power. 

Ter.  They  have  documents  against  us,  and  in  hands, 
Which  show  beyond  all  power  of  contradiction — 

JJ 'al.  Of  my  hand-writing — no  iota.    Thee 
I  punish  for  thy  lies. 

Illo.  And  thou  believest, 

That  what  this  man,  that  what  thy  sister's  husband, 
Did  in  thy  name,  will  not  stand  on  thy  reck'ning  f 
His  word  must  pass  for  thy  word  with  the  Swede, 
And  not  with  those  that  hate  thee  at  Vienna. 

Ter.  In  writing  thou  gav'st  nothing — But  bethink  thee, 
How  far  thou  ventured'st  by  word  of  mouth 
With  this  Sesina  ?    And  will  ho  be  silent  ? 
If  ho  can  save  himself  by  yielding  up 
Thy  secret  purposes,  will  he  retain  them? 

Illo.  Thyself  does  not  conceive  it  possible  ; 
And  since  they  now  have  evidence  authentic 
How  far  thou  hast  already  gone,  speak ! — tell  us, 
What  art  thou  waiting  for  f  thou  canst  no  longer 
Keep  thy  command ;  and  beyond  hope  of  rescue 
Thou'rt  lost,  if  thou  resign'st  it. 

H>//.  In  the  army 

Lies  my  security.     The  army  will  not 
Abandon  me.     Whatever  they  may  know, 
The  power  is  mine  and  they  must  gulp  it  down — 
And  substitute  I  caution  for  my  fealty, 
They  must  be  satisfied,  at  least  appear  so. 

Illo.     The  army,  Duke,  is  thine  now — for  this  moment — 
'Tis  thine:  but  think  with  terror  on  the  slow, 
The  quiet  power  of  time.    From  open  violence 
The  attachment  of  thy  soldiery  secures  thee 
To-day— to-morrow  ;  but  grant'tst  thou  them  a  .respite, 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  325 

Unheard,  unseen,  they'll  undermine  that  love 
On  which  thou  now  dost  feel  so  firm  a  footing, 
With  wily  theft  will  draw  away  from  thee 
One  after  the  other 

Wai.  'Tis  a  cursed  accident ! 

lllo.  O  I  will  call  it  a  most  blessed  one, 
If  it  work  on  thee  as  it  ought  to  do, 
Hurry  thee  on  to  action — to  decisijn — 
The  Swedish  General 

Wai.                                 He's  arrived!     Know'st  thou 
What  his  commission  is 

lllo.  To  thee  alone 

Will  he  entrust  the  purpose  of  his  coming. 

Wai.  A  cursed,  cursed  accident!    Yes,  yes, 
Sesina  knows  too  much,  and  won't  be  silent. 

Ter.  He's  a  Bohemian  fugitive  and  rebel, 
His  neck  his  forfeit.    Can  he  save  himself 
At  thy  cost,  think  you  he  will  scruple  it  ? 
And  if  they  put  him  to  the  torture,  will  he, 
Will  he,  that  dastardling,  have  strength  enough [bly ! 

Wai.  (lost  in  thought.)  Their  confidence  is  lost — irrepara- 
And  I  may  act  what  way  I  will,  I  shall 
Be  and  remain  forever  in  their  thought, 
A  traitor  to  my  country.     How  sincerely 
Soever  I  return  back  to  my  duty, ' 
It  will  no  longer  help  me 

lllo.  Ruin  thee, 

That  it  will  do  !  Not  thy  fidelity, 
Thy  weakness  will  be  deemed  the  sole  occasion — 

Wai.  (pacing  up  and  doicn  in  extreme  agitation.)  What !     I 

must  realize  it  now  in  earnest, 
Because  I  toy'd  too  freely  with  the  thought  ? 
Accursed  he  who  dallies  with  a  devil ! 
And  must  I — I  must  realize  it  now — 
Now,  while  I  have  the  power,  it  must  take  place  ? 

lllo.  Now — now — ere  they  can  ward  and  parry  it ! 

Wai.  (looking  at  the  paper  of  signatures.}   I  have  the  Gen- 
erals' word — a  written  promise ! 
Max.  Piccolomini  stands  not  here — how's  that  ? 

Ter.  It  was he  fancied 

Hlo.  Mere  self-willedness. 

There  needed  no  such  thing  'twixt  him  and  you. 

Wai.  He  is  quite  right — there  needeth  no  such  thing. 


The  first  step  to  revolt's  already  taken. 

lllo.  Believe  me,  thou  wilt  find  it  far  more  easy 
To  lead  them  over  to  the  enemy 
Thau  to  the  Spaniard. 

Wai.  I  will  hear,  however, 

What  the  Swede  has  to  say  to  me. 


326  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

nio.  (eagerly  to  TERTSKY.)  Go,  call  him! 
He  stands  without  the  door  in  waiting. 

Wai.  Stay! 

Stay  yet  a  little.    It  hath  taken  me 
All  by  surprise, — it  came  too  quick  upon  me ; 
'Tis  wholly  novel,  that  an  accident, 
With  its  dark  lordship,  and  blind  agency, 
Should  force  me  on  with  it. 

Illo.  First  hear  him  only, 

And  after  weigh  it.  [Exeunt  TERTSKY  and  ILLO. 

SCENE  IV. 

Wallcnstein  (in  soliloquy.)    Is  it  possible  ? 
Is't  so  ?  I  can  no  longer  what  I  would  f 
No  longer  draw  back  at  my  liking  ?    I 
Must  do  the  deed,  because  I  thought  of  it, 
And  fed  this  heart  here  with  a  dream  ?    Because 
I  did  not  scowl  temptation  from  my  presence, 
Dallied  with  thoughts  of  possible  fulfilment, 
Commenced  no  movement,  left  all  time  uncertain, 
And  only  kept  the  road,  the  access  open  ? 
By  the  great  God  of  Heaven !    It  was  not 
My  serious  meaning,  it  was  ne'er  resolve. 
I  but  amused  myself  with  thinking  of  it. 
The  free-will  tempted  me,  the  power  to  do 
Or  not  to  do  it. — Was  it  criminal 
To  make  the  fancy  minister  to  hope, 
To  fill  the  air  with  pretty  toys  of  air, 
And  clutch  fantastic  sceptres  moving  t'ward  mo  ? 
Was  not  the  will  kept  free?    Beheld  I  not 
The  road  of  duty  close  beside  me — but 
One  little  step,  and  once  more  I  was  in  it ! 
Where  am  I  ?    Whither  have  I  been  transported  ? 
No  road,  no  track  behind  me,  but  a  wall, 
Impenetrable,  insurmountable, 
Rises  obedient  to  the  spells  I  muttered 
And  meant  not — my  own  doings  tower  behind  me. 

[Fames  and  remains  in  deep  thought 
A  punishable  man  I  seem,  the  guilt, 
Try  what  I  will,  I  cannot  roll  off  from  me; 
The  equivocal  demeanour  of  my  life 
Bears  witness  on  my  prosecutor's  party, 
And  even  my  purest  acts  from  purest  motives 
Suspicion  poisons  with  malicious  gloss. 
Were  I  that  thing,  for  which  I  pass,  that  traitor, 
A  goodly  outside  I  had  sure  reserved, 
Had  drawn  the  coverings  thick  and  double  round  me, 
Been  calm  and  chary  of  my  utterance. 
But  being  conscious  of  the  innocence 
Of  my  intent,  my  uncorrupted  will, 
I  gave  way  to  my  humours,  to  my  passion  : 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  327 

Bold  were  my  words,  because  my  deeds  were  not. 

Now  every  planless  measure,  chance  event, 

The  threat  of  rage,  the  vaunt  of  joy  and  triumph, 

And  all  the  May -games  of  a  heart  o'erflowing, 

Will  they  connect,  and  weave  them  all  together 

Into  one  web  of  treason  ;  all  will  be  plan, 

My  eye  ne'er  absent  from  the  far-off  mark, 

Step  tracing  step,  each  step  a  politic  progress ; 

And  out  of  all  they'll  fabricate  a  charge 

So  specious,  that  I  must  myself  stand  dumb. 

I  am  caught  in  my  own  net,  and  only  force, 

Naught  but  a  sudden  rent  can  liberate  me.     [Pauses  again. 

How  else !  since  that  the  heart's  unbiass'd  instinct 

Impelled  me  to  the  daring  deed,  which,  now 

Necessity,  self-preservation,  orders. 

Stern  is  the  On-iook  of  Necessity, 

Not  without  shudder  may  a  human  hand 

Grasp  the  mysterious  urn  of  destiny. 

My  deed  was  mine,  remaining  in  my  bosom, 

Once  suffered  to  escape  from  its  safe  corner 

Within  the  heart,  its  nursery  and  birth-place, 

Sent  forth  into  the  Foreign,  it  belongs 

For  ever  to  those  sly  malicious  powers 

Whom  never  art  of  man  conciliated. 

[Paces  in  agitation  through  the  chamber,  then  pauses,  and 

after  the  pause,  breaks  out  again  into  audible  soliloquy. 
What  is  thy  enterprize?  thy  aim  ?  thy  object? 
Hast  honestly  confessed  it  to  thyself! 
Power  seated  on  a  quiet  throne  thou'dst  shake, 
Power  on  an  ancient  consecrated  throne, 
Strong  in  possession,  founded  in  old  custom; 
Power  by  a  thousand  t6ugh  and  stringy  roots 
Fixed  to  the  people's  pious  nursery-faith. 
This,  this  will  be  no  strife  of  strength  with  strength. 
That  feared  I  not.    I  brave  each  combatant, 
Whom  I  can  look  on,  fixing  eye  to  eye, 
Who  full  himself  of  courage  kindles  courage 
In  me  too.     'Tis  a  foe  invisible, 
The  which  I  fear — a  fearful  enemy, 
Which  in  the  human  heart  opposes  me, 
By  its  coward  fear  alone  made  fearful  to  me. 
Not  that,  which  full  of  life,  instinct  with  power, 
Makes  known  its  present  being,  that  is  not 
The  true,  the  perilously  formidable. 
O  no!  it  is  the  common,  the  quite  common, 
The  thing  of  an  eternal  yesterday, 
What  ever  was,  and  evermore  returns, 
Sterling  to-morrow,  for  to-day  'twas  sterling ! 
For  of  the  wholly  common  is  man  made, 
And  custom  is  his  nurse !  Woe  then  to  them, 
Who  lay  irreverent  hands  upon  his  old 
House  furniture,  the  dear  inheritance 


328  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

From  his  forefathers.    For  time  consecrates ; 
And  what  is  grey  with  age  becomes  religion, 
Be  in  possession,  and  thou  hast  the  right, 
And  sacred  will  the  many  guard  it  for  thee ! 

[To  the  Page,  who  here  enters. 
The  Swedish  officer  ?— Well,  let  him  enter. 

[The  Page  exit,  WALLENSTEIN  fixes  his  eye  in  deep 

thought  on  the  door. 

Yet  is  it  pure — as  yet! — the  crime  has  come 
Not  o'er  this  threshold  yet  -so  slender  is  . 

The  boundary  that  divideth  life's  two  paths. 

SCENE  V. — WALLEXSTEIN  and  WRANGEL. 

Wai.  (after  having  fixed  a  searching  look  on  him.)   Your 
name  is  Wrangel  ? 

Wran.  Gustavo  Wrangel,  General 

Of  the  Sudermanian  Blues. 

Wai.  It  was  a  Wrangel 

Who  injured  me  materially  at  Stralsuud, 
And  by  his  brave  resistance  was  the  cause 
Of  the  opposition  which  that  sea-port  made. 

Wran.  It  was  the  doing  of  the  element 
With  which  you  fought,  my  Lord !  and  not  my  merit. 
The  Baltic  Neptune  did  assert  his  freedom, 
The  sea  and  land,  it  seemed,  were  not  to  serve 
One  and  the  same. 

Wai.  (makes  the  motion  for  him   to  take  a  seat,  and  seats 

himself.)          And  where  are  your  credentials! 
Come  you  provided  with  full  powers,  Sir  General  ? 

Wran.  There  are  so  many  scruples  yet  to  solve 

Wai.  (having  read  the  credentials.)  An  able  letter! — Ay — he 

is  a  prudent 

Intelligent  master,  whom  you  serve,  Sir  General! 
The  Chancellor  writes  me,  that  he  but  fulfils 
His  late  departed  Sovereign's  own  idea 
In  helping  me  to  the  Bohemian  crown. 

Wran.  He  says  the  truth.  Our  great  King,  now  in  heaven, 
Did  ever  deem  most  highly  of  your  Grace's 
Pre-eminent  sense  and  military  genius  ; 
And  always  the  commanding  Intellect, 
He  said,  should  have  command,  and  be  the  King. 

Wai.  Yes,  he  might  say  it  safely.— General  Wrangel, 

[  Taking  his  hand  affectionately. 
Come,  fair  and  open. — Trust  me,  I  was  always 
A  Swede  at  heart.    Ey  !  that  did  you  experience 
Both  in  Silesia  and  at  Nuremburg ; 
I  had  you  often  in  my  power,  and  let  you 
Always  slip  out  by  some  back  door  or  other. 
'Tis  this  for  which  the  Court  can  ne'er  forgive  me, 
Which  drives  me  to  this  present  step :  and  since 
Our  interests  so  run  in  one  direction, 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  329 

K'en  let  us  have  a  thorough  confidence 
Each  in  the  other. 

Wran.  Confidence  will  come 

Has  each  but  only  first  security. 

Wai.  The  Chancellor  still,  I  see,  does  not  quite  trust  me; 
And,  I  confess— the  gain  does  not  lie  wholly 
To  my  advantage — Without  doubt  he  thinks 
If  I  can  play  false  with  the  Emperor, 
Who  is  my  Sovereign,  I  can  do  the  like 
With,  the  enemy,  and  that  the  one  too  were 
Sooner  to  be  forgiven  me  than  the  other. 
Is  not  this  your  opinion  too,  Sir  General? 

Wran.  I  have  here  an  office  merely,  no  opinion. 

Wai.  The  Emperor  hath  urged  me  to  the  uttermost. 
I  can  no  longer  honourably  serve  him. 
For  iny  security,  in  self-defence, 
I  take  this  hard  step,  which  my  conscience  blames. 

Wran.  That  I  believe.    So  far  would  no  one  go 
Who  was  not  forced  to  it.  [.After  a  pause. 

What  may  have  impelled 
Your  princely  Highness  in  this  wise  to  act 
Toward  your  Sovereign  Lord  and  Emperor, 
Beseems  not  us  to  expound  or  criticize. 
The  Swede  is  fighting  for  his  good  old  cause, 
With  his  good  sword  and  conscience.    This  concurrence, 
This  opportunity,  in  in  our  favour, 
And  all  advantages  in  war  are  lawful. 
We  take  what  otters  without  questioning  ; 
And  if  all  have  its  due  and  just  proportions 

Wai.  Of  what  then  are  ye  doubting  1    Of  my  will  ? 
Or  of  my  power  ?    I  pledged  me  to  the  Chancellor, 
Would  he  trust  me  with  sixteen  thousand  men, 
That  I  would  instantly  go  over  to  them 
With  eighteen  thousand  of  the  Emperor's  troops. 

Wran.  Your  Grace  is  known  to  be  a  mighty  war-chief, 
To  be  a  second  Attila  and  Pyrrhus 
'Tis  talked  of  still  with  fresh  astonishment, 
How  some  years  past,  beyond  all  human  faith, 
You  called  an  army  forth,  like  a  creation  : 
But  yet 

Wai.  But  yet  ? 

Wran.  But  still  the  Chancellor  thinks, 

It  might  yet  be  an  easier  thing  from  nothing 
To  call  forth  sixty  thousand  men  of  battle, 
Then  to  persuade  one  sixtieth  part  of  them — 

Wai.  What  now  f    Out  with  it,  friend  ? 

Wran.  To  break  their  oaths. 

Wai.  And  he  thinks  so  f — He  judges  like  a  Swede, 
And  like  a  Protestant.    You  Lutherans 
Fight  for  your  Bible.    You  are  interested 
About  the  cause  ;  and  with  your  hearts  you  follow 
Your  banners. — Among  you,,  whoe'er  deserts 


330  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

To  the  enemy,  hath  broken  covenant 

With  two  Lords  at  oiie  time. — We've  no  such  fancies. 

Wran.  Great  God  in  H  eaven !     Have  then  the  people  here 
No  house  and  home,  no  fire-side,  no  altar  ? 

Wai.  I  will  explain  that  to  you,  how  it  stands — 
The  Austrian  has  a  country,  ay,  and  loves  it, 
And  has  good  cause  to  love  it  -but  this  army, 
That  calls  itself  the  Imperial,  this  that  houses 
Here  in  Bohemia,  this  has  none— no  country  ; 
This  is  an  outcast  of  all  foreign  lands, 
Un  claim' d  by  town  or  tribe,  to  whom  belongs 
Nothing,  except  the  universal  sun. 

Wran.  But  then  the  Nobles  and  the  Officers  ? 
Such  a  desertion,  such  a  felony, 
It  is  without  example,  my  Lord  Duke, 
In  the  world's  history. 

Wai.  They  are  all  mine — 

Mine  unconditionally — mine  on  all  terms. 
Not  me,  your  own  eyes  you  must  trust. 

[He  (fives  him  the  paper  containing  the  written  oath. 
WRANGEL  reads  it  through,  and,   having  read  it, 
lays  it  on  the  table,  remaining  silent. 
So  then  f 
Now  comprehend  you  ? 

If  ran.  Comprehend,  who  can! 

My  Lord  Duke  ;  I  will  Jet  the  mask  drop — yes! 
I've  full  powers  for  a  final  settlement. 
The  Rhinegrave  stands  but  four  days'  march  from  here, 
With  fifteen  thousand  men,  and  only  waits 
For  orders  to  proceed  and  join  your  army. 
Those  orders  1  give  out,  immediately 
We're  compromised. 

Wai.  What  asks  the  Chancellor  T 

Wran.  (considerately.)  Twelve  regiments,  every  man  a 

Swede — my  head 

The  warranty — and  all  might  prove  at  last 
Only  false  play 

Wai.  (starting.)  Sir  Swede! 

Wran.  (calmly  proceeding.)    Am  therefore  forced 
T'  insist  thereon,  that  he  do  formally, 
Irrevocably  break  with  the  Emperor, 
Else  not  a  Swede  is  trusted  to  Duke  Friedland. 

Wai.  Come,  brief,  and  open  !  What  is  the  demand  ? 

Wran.  That  he  forthwith  disarm  the  Spanish  regiments 
Attached  to  the  Emperor,  that  he  seize  Prague, 
And  to  the  Swedes  give  up  that  city,  with 
The  strong  pass  Egra. 

Wai.  That  is  much  indeed! 

Prague !— Egra's  granted — But — but  Prague  !—T won't  do! 
I  give  you  every  security 

Which  you  may  ask  of  me  in  common  reason — 
But  Prague — Bohemia — these,  Sir  General, 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEJN.  331 

I  can  myself  protect. 

Wran.  We  doubt  it  not. 

But  'tis  not  the  protection  that  is  now 
Our  sole  concern.     We  want  security, 
That  we  shall  not  expend  our  men  and  money 
All  to  no  purpose. 

Wai.  'Tis  but  reasonable. 

Wran.  And  till  we  are  indemnified,  so  long 
Stays  Prague  in  pledge. 

Wai.  Then  trust  you  us  so  little  ? 

Wran.  (rising.}  The  Swede,  if  he  would  treat  well  with 

the  German, 

Must  keep  a  sharp  look-out.    We  have  been  called 
Over  the  Baltic,  we  have  saved  the  empire 
From  ruin — with  our  best  blood  have  we  seal'd 
The  liberty  of  faith,  and  gospel  truth. 
But  now  already  is  the  benefaction 

No  longer  felt,  the  load  alone  is  felt. 

Ye  look  askance  with  evil  eye  upon  us, 
As  foreigners,  intruders  in  the  empire, 
And  would  fain  send  us,  with  some  paltry  sum 
Of  money,  home  again  to  our  old  forests. 
No,  no!  my  Lord  Duke !  no !— it  never  was 
For  Judas'  pay,  for  chinking  gold  and  silver, 
That  we  did  leave  our  king  by  the  Great  Stone.* 
No,  not  for  gold  and  silver  have  there  bled 
So  many  of  our  Swedish  nobles — neither 
Will  we  with  empty  laurels  for  our  payment, 
Hoist  sail  for  our  own  country.     Citizens 
Will  we  remain  upon  the  soil,  the  which 
Our  Monarch  conquered  for  himself,  and  died. 

Wai.  Help  to  keep  down  the  common  enemy, 
And  the  fair  border  land  must  needs  be  yours. 

Wran.  But  when  the  common  enemy  lies  vanquished, 
Who  knits  together  our  new  friendship  then  ? 
We  know  Duke  Friedland  !  though  perhaps  the  Swede 
Ought  not  t'  have  known  it,  that  you  carry  on 
Secret  negociations  with  the  Saxons. 
Who  is  our  warranty,  that  we  are  not 
The  sacrifices  in  those  articles 
Which  'tis  thought  needful  to  conceal  from  us  ? 

Wai.  (rises.)  Think  you  of  something  better,   Gustavo 
Of  Prague  no  more.  [  Wraugel  ? 

Wran.  Here  my  commission  ends. 

Wai.  Surrender  up  to  you  my  capital ! 
Far  liever  would  I  face  about,  and  step 
Back  to  my  Emperor. 

Wran.    "  If  time  yet  permits 

*  A  great  stone  near  Liitze  ),  since  called  tha  Swede's  Stone,  the 
body  of  their  great  King  having  been  found  at  tae  foot  of  it,  after 
the  battle  iu  which  he  lost  his  life. 


332  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Wai.  That  lies  with  me,  even  now,  at  any  hour. 

Wran.  Some  days  ago,  perhaps.     To-day,  no  longer, 
No  longer  since  Sesina's  been  a  prisoner. 

[WALLENSTEIN  is  struck,  and  silenced. 
My  Lord  Duke  hear  me — We  believe  that  you 
At  present  do  mean  honourably  by  us. 
Since  yesterday  we're  sure  of  that — and  now 
This  paper  warrants  for  the  troops,  there's  nothing 
Stands  in  the  way  of  our  full  confidence. 
Prague  shall  not  part  us.    Hear !    The  Chancellor 
Contents  himself  with  Albstadt,  to  your  Grace 
He  gives  up  Ratschiu  and  the  narrow  side. 
But  Egra,  above  all,  must  open  to  us, 
Ere  we  can  think  of  any  junction. 

Wai.  You, 

You  therefore  must  I  trust,  and  you  not  me  ? 
I  will  consider  of  your  proposition. 

Wran.  I  must  entreat  that  your  consideration 
Occupy  not  too  long  a  time.    Already 
Has  this  negociation,  my  Lord  Duke  ! 
Crept  on  into  the  second  year.    If  nothing 
Is  settled  this  time,  will  the  Chancellor 
Consider  it  as,  broken  off  for  ever. 

Wai.  Ye  press  me  hard.    A  measure,  such  as  this, 
Ought  to  be  thought  of. 

Wran.  Ay !  but  think  of  this  too, 

That  sudden  action  only  can  procure  it 
Success — think  first  of  this,  your  Highness. 

[Exit  WRANGEL. 

SCENE  VI.— WALLENSTEIN  TERTSKY,  and  ILLO.   (re-enter.) 

I/to.  Is't  all  right  I 

Ter.  Are  you  compromised  ? 

Illo.  This  Swede 

Went  smiling  from  you.    Yes!  you're  compromised. 

Wai.  As  yet  is  nothing  settled  :  and  (well  weighed) 
I  feel  myself  inclined  to  leave  it  so. 

Ter.  How  f    What  is  that  I 

Wai.  Come  on  me  what  will  come, 

The  doing  evil  to  avoid  an  evil 
Cannot  be  good ! 

Ter.  Nay,  but  bethink  you,  Duke  ? 

iVal.  To  live  upon  the  mercy  of  these  Swedes! 
Of  these  proud-hearted  Swedes  I  could  not  bear  it. 

Illo.  Goest  thou  as  fugitive,  as  mendicant  ? 
Bringest  thou  not  more  to  them  than  thou  receivest  ? 

SCENE  VII. — To  these  enter  the  COUNTESS  TERTSKY. 

Wai.  Who  sent  for  you  ?    There  is  no  business  here 
For  women.  • 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  333 

Coun.          I  am  come  to  bid  you  joy. 

Wai.  Use  thy  authority,  Tertsky,  bid  her  go. 

Coun.  Come  I  perhaps  too  early  ?    I  hope  not. 

Wai.  Set  not  this  tongue  upon  me,  I  entreat  you. 
You  know  it  is  the  weapon  that  destroys  me. 
I  am  routed,  if  a  woman  but  attack  me. 
I  cannot  traffic  in  the  trade  of  words 
With  that  unreasoning  sex. 

Coun.  I  had  already 

Given  the  Bohemians  a  king. 

Wai.  (sarcastically.')  They  have  one, 

In  consequence,  no  doubt. 

Coun.  (to  the  others.)  Ha!  what  new  scruple  ? 

Ter.  The  Duke  will  not. 

Coun.  He  will  not  what  he  must ! 

Illo.  It  lies  with  you  now.     Try.    For  I  am  silenced, 
When  folks  begin  to  talk  to  me  of  conscience, 
And  of  fidelity. 

Coun.  How  ?  then,  when  all 

Lay  in  the  far  off  distance,  when  the  road 
Stretched  out  before  thine  eyes  interminably, 
Then  hadst  thou  courage  and  resolve  ;  and  now, 
Now  that  the  dream  is  being  realized, 
The  purpose  ripe,  the  issue  ascertained. 
Dost  thou  begin  to  play  the  dastard  now  f 
Planned  merely,  'tis  a  common  felony  ; 
Accomplished,  an  immortal  undertaking ; 
And  with  success  comes  pardon  hand  in  hand ; 
For  all  event  is  God's  arbitrament. 

Servant  (enters).  The  Colonel  Piccolomini. 

Coun.  (hastily.)  — Must  wait. 

Wai.  I  cannot  see  him  now.    Another  time. 

Ser.  But  for  two  minutes  he  entreats  an  audience. 
Of  the  most  urgent  nature  is  his  business. 

Wai.  Who  knows  what  he  may  bring  us  ?  I  will  hear  him. 

Coun.  (laughs.)  Urgent  for  him,  no  doubt;  but  thou  may- 
est  wait. 

Wai.  What  is  it  f 

Coun.  Thou  shalt  be  informed  hereafter. 

FL-atlet  the  Swede  and  thee  be  compromised.  [Exit  Servant. 

Wai.  If  there  were  yet  a  choice!  if  yet  some  milder 
Way  of  escape  were  possible — I  still 
Will  chuse  it,  and  avoid  the  last  extreme. 

Coun.  Desh'st  thou  nothing  further?    Such  a  way 
Lies  still  before  thee.     Send  this  Wrangel  off. 
Forget  thou  thy  old'hopes,  cast  far  away 
All  thy  past  life ;  determine  to  commence 
A  new  one.    Virtue  hath  her  heroes  too, 
As  well  as  Fame  and  Fortune. — To  Vienna — 
Hence — to  the  Emperor — kneel  before  the  throne  j 
Take  a  frill  coffer  with  thee — say  aloud, 
Thou  did'st  but  wish  to  prove  thy  fealty ; 


334  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Thy  whole  intention  but  to  dupe  the  Swede. 

Illo.  For  that  too  'tis  too  late.    They  know  too  much. 
He  would  but  bear  his  own  head  to  the  block. 

Coun.  I  fear  not  that.    They  have  not  evidence 
To  attaint  him  legally,  and  they  avoid 
The  avowal  of  an  arbitary  power. 
They'll  let  the  Duke  resign  without  disturbance. 
I  see  how  all  will  end.     The  King  of  Hungary 
Makes  his  appearance,  and  'twill  of  itself 
Be  understood,  that  then  the  Duke  retires, 
There  will  not  want  a  formal  declaration. 
The  young  King  will  administer  the  oath 
To  the  whole  army ;  and  so  all  returns 
To  the  old  position.     On  some  morrow  morning 
The  Duke  departs ;  and  now  'tis  stir  and  bustle 
Within  his  castles.     He  will  hunt,  and  build, 
Superintend  his  horses'  pedigrees, 
Creates  himself  a  court,  gives  golden  keys, 
And  introduceth  strictest  ceremony 
In  fine  proportions,  and  nice  etiquette  ; 
Keeps  open  table  with  high  cheer;  in  brief 
Commenceth  mighty  King — in  miniature. 
And  while  lie  prudently  demeans  himself, 
And  gives  himself  no  actual  importance, 
He  will  be  let  appear  whate'er  he  likes; 
And  who  dares  doubt,  that  Friedland  will  appear 
A  mighty  Prince  to  his  hast  dying  hour  ? 
Well  now,  what  then  ?     Duke  Friedland  is,  as  others, 
A  fire-new  Noble,  whom  the  war  hath  raised 
To  price  and  currency,  a  Jonah's  Gourd, 
An  over-night  creation  of  court-favour, 
Which  with  an  undistinguishable  ease 
Makes  Baron  or  makes  Prince. 

Wai.  (in  extreme  agitation.)    Take  her  away. 
Let  in  the  young  Count  Piccolomini. 

Coun.  Art  thou  in  earnest  f    I  entreat  thee !    Canst  thou 
Consent  to  bear  thyself  to  thy  own  grave, 
So  ignominiously  to  be  dried  up  I 
Thy  life,  that  arrogated  such  an  height, 
To  end  in  such  a  nothing!     To  be  nothing, 
When  one  was  always  nothing,  is  an  evil, 
That  asks  no  stretch  of  patience,  a  light  evil, 
But  to  become  a  nothing,  having  been 

Wai.  (starts  up  in  violent  agitation.)  Shew  me  a  way  out 

of  this  stilling  crowd, 

Ye  powers  of  Aidance!    Shew  me  such  a  way 
As  2  am  capable  of  going. — I 
Am  no  tongue-hero,  no  fine  virtue-prattler; 
I  cannot  warm  by  thinking ;  cannot  say 
To  the  good  luck  that  turns  her  back  upon  me, 
Magnanimously :  "  Go  ;  I  need  thee  not." 
Cease  I  to  work,  I  am  annihilated. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTELN. 


335 


Dangers  nor  sacrifices  will  I  shun, 

If  so  I  may  avoid  the  last  extreme ; 

But  ere  I  sink  down  into  nothingness, 

Leave  off  so  little,  who  began  so  great, 

Ere  that  the  world  confuses  me  with  those 

Poor  wretches,  whom  a  day  creates  and  crumbles, 

This  age  and  after  ages*  speak  my  name 

With  hate  and  dread  ;  and  Friedland  be  redemption 

For  each  accursed  deed ! 

Coun.  What  is  there  here,  then, 

So  against  nature  ?    Help  me  to  perceive  it ! 
O  let  not  Superstition's  nightly  goblins 
Subdue  thy  clear  bright  spirit!    Art  thou  bid 
To  murder  ? — with  abhorr'd  accursed  poniard, 
To  violate  the  breasts  that  nourished  thee  ? 
That  were  agaiust  our  nature,  that  might  aptly 
Make  thy  flesh  shudder,  and  thy  whole  heart  sicken,! 
Yet  not  a  few,  and  for  a  meaner  object 
Have  ventured  even  this,  ay,  and  performed  it. 
What  is  there  in  thy  case  so  black  and  monstrous  ? 
Thou  art  accused  of  treason — whether  with 
Or  without  justice  is  not  now  the  question — 
Thou  art  lost  if  thou  dost  not  avail  taee  quickly 
Of  the  power  which  thou  possessest — Friedland!  Dulce! 
Tell  me,  where  lives  that  thing  so  meek  and  tame, 
That  doth  not  all  his  living  faculties 
Put  forth  in  preservation  of  his  life  ? 
What  deed  so  daring,  which  necessity 
And  desperation  will  not  sanctify  ? 

Wai.  Once  was  this  Ferdinand  so  gracious  to  me : 
He  loved  me  ;  he  esteemed  me  ;  I  was  placel 
The  nearest  to  his  heart.     Full  many  a  time 
We,  like  familiar  friends,  both  at  one  table, 
Have  banqueted  together.    He  and  I — 
And  the  young  kings  themselves  held  me  the  bason 
Wherewith  to  wash  me — and  is't  come  to  this? 

Coun.  So  faithfully  preserv'st  thou  each  small  favour, 
And  hast  no  memory  for  contumelies  ? 
Must  I  remind  thee,  how  at  Regenspurg 
This  man  repaid  thy  faithful  services  ? 
All  ranks  and  all  conditions  in  the  empire  [thee, 

Thou  hadst  wronged,  to  make  him  great — hadst  loaded  on 
On  thee,  the  hate,  the  curse  of  the  whole  world. 
No  friend  existed  for  thee  in  all  Germany. 
And  why  ?  because  thou  hadst  existed  only 

*  Could  I  have  hazarded  such  a  Germanism,  as  the  use  of  the 
word  after- world,  for  posterity,— "Es  spreche  Welt  und  Nachwelt 
meinen  Nahmen  "—might  have  been  rendered  with  more  literal 
fidelity  :— Let  world  and  after-world  speak  out  my  name,  &c. 

1 1  have  not  ventured  to  affront  the  fastidious  delicacy  of  our 
age  with  a  literal  translation  of  this  line, 

"  werth 
Die  Eingeweide  schaudernd  aufzureger." 


336  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

For  the  Emperor.    To  the  Emperor  alone 

Clung  Friedland  in  that  storin  which  gathered  round  him 

At  Regenspurg  in  the  Diet — and  he  dropped  thee ! 

He  let  thee  fall !    He  let  thee  fall  a  victim 

To  the  Bavarian,  to  that  insolent ! 

Deposed,  etript  bare  of  all  thy  dignity 

And  power,  amid  the  taunting  of  thy  foes, 

Thou  wert  let  drop  into  obscurity. — 

Say  not,  the  restoration  of  thy  honour 

Has  made  atonement  for  that  first  injustice. 

No  honest  good-will  was  it  that  replaced  thee, 

The  law  of  hard  necessity  replaced  thee, 

Which  they  had  fain  opposed,  but  that  they  could  not. 

Wai.  Not  to  their  good  wishes,  that  is  certain, 
Nor  yet  to  his  affection  I'm  indebted 
For  this  high  office ;  and  if  I  abuse  it, 
I  shall  therein  abuse  no  confidence. 

Coun.  Affection!  confidence! — They  needed  thee. 
Necessity,  impetuous  remonstrant ! 
Who  not  with  empty  names,  or  shews  of  proxy, 
Is  served,  who'll  have  the  thing  and  not  the  symbol, 
Ever  seeks  out  the  greatest  and  the  best, 
And  at  the  rudder  places  him,  e'en  though 
She  had  been  forced  to  take  him  from  the  rabble — 
She,  this  Necessity,  it  was  that  placed  thee 
In  this  high  office,  it  was  she  that  gave  thee 
Thy  letters  patent  of  inauguration. 
For,  to  the  uttermost  moment  that  they  can, 
This  race  still  help  themselves  at  cheapest  rate 
With  slavish  souls,  with  puppets!    At  the  approach 
Of  extreme  peril,  when  a  hollow  image 
Is  found  a  hollow  image  and  no  more, 
Then  falls  the  power  into  the  mighty  hands 
Of  Nature,  of  the  spirit  giant-born, 
Who  listens  only  to  himself,  knows  nothing 
Of  stipulations,  duties,  reverences, 
And,  like  the  emancipated  force  of  fire, 
Uumastered  scorches,  ere  it  reaches  them, 
Their  fine-spun  webs,  their  artificial  policy. 

WaL  'Tis  true!  they  saw  me  always  as  I  am — 
Always!  I  did  not  cheat  them  in  the  bargain. 
I  never  held  it  worth  my  pains  to  hide 
The  bold  all-grasping  habit  of  my  soul. 

Coun.  Nay  rather — thou  hast  ever  shewn  thyself 
A  formidable  man,  without  restraint : 
Hast  exercised  the  full  prerogatives 
Of  thy  impetuous  nature,  which  had  been 
Once  granted  to  thee.     Therefore,  Duke,  not  thou, 
Who  has  still  remained  consistent  with  thyself, 
But  they  are  in  the  wrong,  who  fearing  thee, 
Entrusted  such  a  power  in  hand  they  feared. 
For,  by  the  laws  of  Spirit,  iu  the  right 


COLERIDGE. 


O  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man  ! '' 

The  Ancient  Marnier,  page  16. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  337 

Is  every  individual  character 

That  acts  in  strict  consistence  with  itself. 

Self-contradiction  is  the  only  wrong. 

Wert  thou  another  being,  then,  when  thou 

Eight  years  ago  pursuedst  thy  march  with  fire 

And  sword,  and  desolation,  through  the  Circles 

Of  Germany,  the  universal  scourge, 

Didst  mock  all  ordinances  of  the  empire 

The  fearful  rights  of  strength  alone  exertedst, 

Trampledst  to  earth  each  rank,  each  magistracy, 

All  to  extend  thy  Sultan's  domination  1 

Then  was  the  time  to  break  tliee  in,  to  curb 

Thy  haughty  will,  to  teach  thee  ordinance. 

But  no !  the  Emperor  felt  no  touch  ot  conscience, 

What  served  him  pleased  him,  and  without  a  murmur 

He  stamped  his  broad  seal  on  these  lawless  deeds. 

What  at  that  time  was  right,  because  thou  didst  it 

For  him,  to  day  is  all  at  once  become 

Opprobrious,  foul,  because  it  is  directed 

Ayainst  him. — O  most  flimsy  superstition ! 

Wai.  (rising.)  I  never  saw  it  in  this  light  before. 
'Tis  even  so.     The  Emperor  perpetrated 
Deeds  through  my  arm,  deeds  most  unorderly. 
And  even  this  prince's  mantle,  which  I  wear, 
I  owe  to  what  were  services  to  him, 
But  most  high  misdemeanours  'gainst  the  empire. 

Coun.  Then  betwixt  thee  and  him  (coufes^it  Friedland!) 
The  point  can  be  no  more  of  right  and  duty, 
Only  of  power  and  the  opportunity. 
That  opportunity,  lo!  it  comes  yonder, 
Approaching  with  swift  steeds ;  then  with  a  swing 
Throw  thyself  up  into  the  chariot  seat, 
Seize  with  firm  hand  the  reins,  ere  thy  opponent 
Anticipate  thee,  and  himself  make  conquest 
Of  the  now  empty  seat.    The  moment  comes, 
It  is  already  here,  when  thou  must  write 
The  absolute  total  of  thy  life's  vast  sum. 
The  constellations  stand  victorious  o'er  thee, 
The  planets  shoot  good  fortune  in  fair  junctions, 
And  tell  thee,  "  Now's  the  time  !"    The  starry  courses 
Hast  thou  thy  life-long  measured  to  no  purpose  ? 
The  quadrant  and  the  circle,  were  they  playthings  ? 

[ Pointing  to  the  different  objects  in  the  room. 
The  zodiacs,  the  rolling  orbs  of  heaven, 
Hast  pictured  on  these  walls,  and  all  around  thee 
In  dumb,  foreboding  symbols  hast  thou  placed 
These  seven  presiding  Lords  of  Destiny— 
For  toys  ?    Is  all  this  preparation  nothing  ? 
Is  there  no  marrow  in  this  hollow  art, 
That  even  to  thyself  it  doth  avail 
Nothing,  and  Las  no  influence  over  thee 
In  the  great  moment  of  decision  ? — 
o 


338  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Wai.  (during  this  last  speech  walks  up  and  down  icith  inward 
struggles,   labouring  with  passions;    stops  suddenly, 
stands  stiil,  then  interrupting  the  COUNTESS.) 
Send  Wrangel  to  me—  I  will  instantly 
Dispatch  three  couriers 

Illo.  (hurrying  out.)    God  in  heaven  be  praised ! 

Wai.  It  is  his  evil  genius  and  mine. 
Our  evil  genius  !     It  chastises  him 
Through  me,  the  instrument  of  his  ambition  ; 
And  I  expect  no  less,  than  that  Revenge 
E'en  now  is  whetting  for  my  breast  the  poniard. 
Who  sows  the  serpent's  teeth,  let  him  not  hope 
To  reap  a  joyous  harvest.     Every  crime 
Has,  in  the  moment  of  its  perpetration 
Its  own  avenging  angel — dark  Misgiving, 
An  ominous  Sinking  at  the  inmost  heart. 
He  can  no  longer  trust  me. — Then  no  longer 
Can  I  retreat — so  come  that  which  must  come. — 
Still  destiny  preserves  its  due  relations, 
The  heart  within  us  is  its  absolute 
Vicegerent.  [ToTERTSKY. 

Go,  conduct  you  Gustave  Wrangel 
To  rny  state-cabinet. — Myself  will  speak  to 
The  couriers. — And  dispatch  immediately 
A  servant  for  Octavio  Piccolomiui. 

[To  the  COUNTESS  who  cannot  conceal  her  triumph. 
No  exultation ! — woman,  triumph  not ! 
For  jealous  are* the  Powers  of  Destiny. 
Joy  premature,  and  Shouts  ere  victory, 
Incroach  upon  their  rights  and  privileges. 
We  sow  the  seed,  and  they  the  growth  determine. 

[  While  heis  making  his  exit  the  curtain  drops. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — As  in  the  preceding  Act.    WALLENSTEIX,  OCTAVIO 
PICCOLOMINI. 

Wai.  (coming  forward  in  conversation.)    He  sends  me  word 

from  Linz,  that  he  lies  sick ; 
But  I  have  sure  intelligence,  that  he 
Secrets  himself  at  Frauenberg  with  Galas. 
Secure  theai  both,  and  send  them  to  me  hither. 
Remember,  thou  tak'st  on  thee  the  command 
Of  those  same  Spanish  regiments,— constantly 
Make  preparation,  and  be  never  ready ; 
And  if  they  urge  thee  to  draw  out  against  me, 
Still 'answer  YES,  and  stand  as  thou  wert  fettered. 
I  know,  that  it  is  doing  thee  a  service 
To  keep  thee  out  of  action  in  this  business. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  339 

Thou  Invest  to  linger  on  in  fair  appearances ; 
Steps  of  extremity  are  not  thy  province, 
Therefore  have  I  sought  out  this  part  for  thee. 
Thou  wilt  this  time  be  of  most  service  to  me 
By  thy  inertness.    The  mean  time,  if  fortune 
Declare  itself  on  my  side,  thou  wilt  know 
What  is  to  do. 

Enter  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

Now  go,  Octavio. 

This  night  must  thou  be  off,  take  my  own  horses : 
Him  here  I  keep  with  me — make  short  farewell — 
Trust  me,  I  think  we  all  shall  meet  again 
In  joy  and  thriving  fortunes. 

Oct.  (to  his  Sou.)  I  shall  see  you 

Yet  ere  I  go. 

SCENE  II. — WALLEXSTEIN,   MAX.  PICCOLOMIXI. 

Max.  (advances  to  him.)  My  General ! 

Wai.  That  am  I  no  longer,  if 

Thou  styl'st  thyself  the  Emperor's  officer. 

Max.  Then  thou  wilt  leave  the  army,  General  ? 

Wai.  I  have  renounced  the  service  of  the  Emperor. 

Max.  And  thou  wilt  leave  the  army  f 

Wai.  Rather  hope  I 

To  bind  it  nearer  still  and  faster  to  me.      [He  seats  himself. 
Yes,  Max.,  I  have  delayed  to  open  it  to  thee, 
Even  till  the  hour  of  acting  'gins  to  strike. 
Youth's  fortunate  feeling  doth  seize  easily 
The  absolute  right,  yea,  and  a  joy  it  is 
To  exercise  the  single  apprehension 
Where  the  sums  square  in  proof; 
But  where  it  happens,  that  of  two  sure  evils 
One  must  be  taken,  where  the  heart  not  wholly 
Brings  itself  back  from  out  the  strife  of  duties, 
There  'tis  a  blessing  to  have  no  election, 
And  blank  necessity  is  grace  and  favour. 
— This  is  now  present:  do  not  look  behind  thee, 
It  can  no  more  avail  thee.    Look  thou  forwards! 
Think  not!  judge  not!  prepare  thyself  to  act ! 
The  Court— it  hath  determined  on  my  ruin, 
Therefore  I  will  to  be  beforehand  with  them. 
We'll  join  the  Swedes — right  gallant  fellows  are  they, 
And  our  good  friends. 

[He  stops  himself,  expecting  PICCOLOMINI'S  answer. 
I  have  ta'en  thee  by  surprise.    Answer  me  not. 
I  grant  thee  time  to  recollect  thyself. 

[He  rises,  and  retires  at  the  back  of  the  stage.  MAX. 
remains  for  a  long  time  motionless,  in  a  trance  of 
excessive  anguish.  At  his  first  motion  WALLEN- 
STEIN  returns,  and  places  himself  before  him. 


340  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Max.  My  General,  this  day  thou  makest  me 
Of  age,  to  speak  m  my  own  right  and  person, 
For  till  this  day  I  have  been  spared  the  trouble 
To  find  out  my  own  road.     Thee  have  I  followed 
With  most  implicit  unconditional  faith, 
Sure  of  the  right  path  if  I  followed  thee. 
To-day,  for  the  first  time,  dost  thou  refer 
Me  to  myself,  and  forcest  me  to  make 
Election  between  thee  and  my  own  heart. 

Wai.  Soft  cradled  thee  thy  Fortune  till  to-day  ; 
Thy  duties  thou  could'st  exercise  in  sport, 
Indulge  all  lovely  instincts,  act  for  ever 
With  undivided  heart.     It  can  remain 
No  longer  thus.    Like  enemies,  the  roads 
Start  from  each  other.    Duties  strive  with  duties. 
Thou  must  needs  chuse  thy  party  in  the  war 
Which  is  now  kindling  'twixt  thy  friend  and  him 
Who  is  thy  Emperor. 

Max.  War !  is  that  the  name  ? 

War  is  as  frightful  as  heaven's  pestilence. 
Yet  it  is  good,  is  it  heaven's  will  as  that  is. 
Is  that  a  good  war,  which  against  the  Emperor 
Thou  wagest  with  the  Emperor's  own  army  1 
O  God  of  heaven!  what  a  change  is  this. 
Beseems  it  me  to  offer  such  persuasion 
To  thee,  who  like  the  fixed  star  of  the  pole 
Wert  all  I  gazed  at  on  life's  trackless  ocean  f 
O  !  what  a  rent  thou  makest  in  my  heart ! 
The  ingrained  instinct  of  old  reverence, 
The  holy  habit  of  obedience, 
Must  I  pluck  live  asunder  from  thy  name  ? 
Nay,  do  not  turn  thy  countenance  upon  me — 
It  always  was  as  a  god  looking  at  me ! 
Duke  Wallenstein,  its  power  is  not  departed : 
The  senses  still  are  in  thy  bonds,  although, 
Bleeding,  the  soul  hath  freed  itself. 

Wai.  Max.,  hear  me. 

Max.  O!  do  it  not,  I  pray  thee,  do  it  not! 
There  is  a  pure  and  noble  soul  within  thee, 
Knows  not  of  this  uublest,  unlucky  doing. 
Thy  will  is  chaste,  it  is  thy  fancy  only 
Which  hath  polluted  thee — and  innocence, 
It  will  not  let  itself  be  driven  away 
From  that  world-awing  aspect.    Thou  wilt  not, 
Thou  canst  not,  end  in  this.    It  would  reduce 
All  human  creatures  to  disloyalty 
Against  the  nobleness  of  their  own  nature. 
'Twill  justify  the  vulgar  misbelief, 
Which  holdeth  nothing  noble  in  free  will, 
And  trusts  itself  to  impotence  alone 
Made  powerful  only  in  an  unknown  power. 

Wai.  The  world  will  judge  me  sternly,  I  expect  it. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  341 

Already  have  I  said  to  my  own  self 
All  thou  canst  say  to  me.     Who  but  avoids 
The  extreme,— can  he  by  going  round  avoid  it? 
Bat  here  there  is  no  choice.     Yes — I  must  use 
Or  suffer  violence — so  stands  the  case, 
There  remains  nothing  possible  but  that. 

Max.  O  that  is  never  possible  for  thee  ! 
'Tis  the  last  desperate  resource  of  those 
Cheap  souls,  to  whom  their  honour,  their  good  name 
Is  their  poor  saving,  theh'  last  worthless  Keep, 
Which  having  staked  and  lost,  they  stake  themselves 
In  the  mad  rage  of  gaining.     Thou  art  rich, 
And  glorious ;  with  an  unpolluted  heart 
Thou  canst  make  conquest  of  what  e'er  seems  highest ! 
But  he,  who  once  hath  acted  infamy, 
Does  nothing  more  in  this  world. 

Wai.  (grasps  his  hand. )  Calmly,  Max. ! 

Much  that  is  great  and  excellent  will  we 
Perform  together  yet.    And  if  we  only 
Stand  on  the  height  with  dignity,  'tis  soon 
Forgotten,  Max..  by  what  road  we  ascended. 
Believe  me,  many  a  crown  shines  spotless  now 
That  yet  was  deeply  sullied  in  the  winning. 
To  the  evil  spirit  doth  the  earth  belong, 
Not  to  the  good.     All,  that  the  powers  divine 
Send  from  above,  are  universal  blessings: 
Their  light  rejoices  us,  their  air  refreshes, 
But  never  yet  was  man  enriched  by  them  : 
In  their  eternal  realm  no  property 
Is  to  be  struggled  for — all  there  is  general. 
The  jewel,  the  all-valued  gold  we  win 
From  the  deceiving  Powers,  depraved  in  nature, 
That  dwell  beneath  the  day  and  blessed  sun-light. 
Not  without  sacrifices  are  they  rendered 
Propitious,  and  there  lives  no  soul  on  earth 
That  e'er  retired  unsullied  from  their  service. 

Max.  Whate'er  is  human,  to  the  human  being 
Do  I  allow — and  to  the  vehement 
And  striving  spirit  readily  I  pardon 
The  excess  of  action ;  but  to  thee,  my  general 
Above  all  others  make  I  large  concession. 
For  thou  must  move  a  world,  and  be  the  master — 
He  kills  thee,  who  condemns  thee  to  inaction.  . 
So  be  it  then!  maintain  thee  in  thy  post 
By  violence.     Resist  the  Emperor, 
And  if  it  must  be,  force  with  force  repel : 
I  will  not  praise  it,  yet  I  can  forgive  it. 
But  not — not  to  the  traitor—  yes  T— the  word 

Is  spoken  out 

Not  to  the  traitor  can  J  yield  a  pardon. 
That  is  no  mere  excess!  that  is  no  error 
Of  human  nature — that  is  wholly  different, 


342  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

O  that  is  black,  black  as  the  pit  of  hell ! 

[WALLENSTEIX  betray*  a  sudden  agitation. 
Thou  can'st  not  hear  it  nam'd,  and  wilt  thou  do  it  ? 

0  turn  back  to  thy  duty.    That  thou  canst, 

1  hold  it  certain.     Send  me  to  Vienna. 

I'll  make  thy  peace  for  thee  with  the  Emperor. 
He  knows  thee  not.  But  I  do  know  thee.  He 
Shall  see  thee,  Duke!  with  my  unclouded  eye, 
And  I  bring  back  his  confidence  to  thee.  [pened. 

Wai.   It  is  too  late.    Thou  knowest  not  what  has  hap- 
Max.  Were  it  too  late,  and  were  things  gone  so  far, 
That  a  crime  only  could  prevent  thy  fall, 
Then — fall !  fall  honourably,  even  as  thou  stood'st. 
Lose  the  command.    Go  from  the  stage  of  war. 
Thou  canst  with  splendour  do  it — do  it  too 
With  innocence.    Thou  hast  liv'd  much  for  others, 
At  length  live  thou  for  thy  own  self.     I  follow  thee. 
My  destiny  I  never  part  from  thine. 

Wai.  It  is  too  late !     Even  now,  while  thou  art  losing 
Thy  words,  one  after  the  other  are  the  mile-stones 
Left  fast  behind  by  my  post  couriers, 
Who  bear  the  order  on  to  Prague  and  Egra, 

[MAX.  stands  as  convulsed,  with  a  gesture  and  counte- 
nance expressing  the  most  intense  anguish. 
Yield  thyself  to  it.     We  act  as  we  are  forced. 
/  cannot  give  assent  to  my  own  shame 
And  ruin.     Thou — no — thou  canst  not  forsake  me! 
So  let  us  do,  what  must  be  done,  with  dignity, 
With  a  firm  step.     What  am  I  doing  worse 
Than  did  famed  Caesar  at  the  Rubicon, 
When  he  the  legions  led  against  his  country, 
The  which  his  country  had  delivered  to  him  f 
Had  he  thrown  down  the  sword,  he  had  been  lost, 
As  I  were,  if  I  but  disarmed  myself. 
I  trace  out  something  in  me  of  his  spirit. 
Give  me  his  luck,  that  other  thing  I'll  bear. 

[MAX.  quits  him  abruptly.  WALLENSTEIN,  start  Ic<l  nnd 
overpowered,  continues  looking  after  him,  aiidi-i  still 
in  this  posture  when  TERTSKY  enters. 

SCENE  III.— WALLENSTEIN,  TERTSKY. 

Ter.  Max.  Piccolomini  just  left  you  f 

Wai  Where  is  Wrangel  I 

Ter.  He  is  already  gone. 

Wai.  In  such  a  hurry  ? 

Ter.  It  is  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed  him. 
He  had  scarce  left  thee,  when  I  went  to  seek  him. 
I  wished  some  words  with  him — but  he  was  gone. 
How,  when,  and  where,  could  no  one  tell  me.     Nay, 
I  hall' believe  it  was  the  devil  himself  j 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  343 

A  human  creature  could  not  so  at  once 
Have  vanished. 

lllo.  (enters.)  Is  it  true  that  thou  wilt  send 
Octavio  ? 

Ter.         How,  Octavio !    Whither  send  him 

Wai.  He  goes  to  Frauenberg,  and  will  lead  hither 
The  Spanish  and  Italian  regiments. 

lllo.  No  !— 

Nay,  Heaven  forbid! 

Wai.  And  why  should  Heaven  forbid ! 

lllo.  Him  ! — that  deceiver!    Would' st  thou  trust  to  him 
The  soldiery  I    Him  wilt  thou  let  slip  from  thee, 
Now,  in  the  very  instant  that  decides  us 

Ter.  Thou  wilt  not  do  this! — No!  I  pray  thee,  no! 

Wai.  Ye  are  whimsical. 

lllo.  O  but  for  this  time,  Duke, 

Yield  to  our  warning !   Let  him  not  depart. 

Wai.  And  why  should  I  not  trust  him  only  this  time. 
Who  have  always  trusted  him  ?  What,  then,*has  happened, 
That  I  should  lose  my  good  opinion  of  him  f 
In  complaisance  to  your  whims,  nofc  my  own, 
I  mnst,  forsooth,  give  up  a  rooted  judgment. 
Think  not  I  am  a  woman.    Having  trusted  him 
E'en  till  to-day,  to-day  will  I  trust  him. 

Ter.  Must  it  be  he — he  only  ?     Send  another. 

Wai.  It  must  be  he,  whom  I  myself  have  chosen ; 
He  is  well  fitted  for  the  business.    Therefore 
I  gave  it  him. 

lllo.  Because  he's  an  Italian — 

Therefore  is  he  well  fitted  for  the  business. 

Wai.  I  know  you  love  them  not — nor  sire  nor  son — 
Because  that  1  esteem  them,  love  them — visibly 
Esteem  them,  love  them  more  than  you  and  others, 
E'en  as  they  merit.    Therefore  are  they  eye-blights, 
Thorns  in  your  foot-path.    Bufc  your  jealousies, 
In  what  affect  they  me  or  my  concerns? 
Are  they  the  worse  to  me  because  you  hate  them  ? 
Love  or  hate  one  another  as  you  will, 
I  leave  to  each  man  his  own  moods  and  likings ; 
Yet  know  the  worth  of  each  of  you  to  me. 

lllo.  Von  Questenberg,  while  he  was  here,  was  always 
Lurking  about  with  this  Octavio. 

Wai.  It  happened  with  my  knowledge  and  permission. 

lllo.  I  know  that  secret  messengers  came  to  him 
From  Galas 

Wai.  That's  not  true. 

lllo.  O  thou  art  blind 

With  thy  deep-seeing  eyes. 

Wai.  Thou  wilt  not  shake 

My  faith  for  me — my  faith,  which  founds  itself 
On  the  profouudest  science.    If 'tis  false, 
Then  the  whole  science  of  the  stars  is  false. 


344  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

For  know,  I  have  a  pledge  from  Fate  itself, 
That  he  is  the  most  faithful  of  my  friends. 

lllo.  Hast  thou  a  pledge,  that  this  pledge  is  not  false  ? 

Wai.  There  exist  moments  in  the  life  of  man, 
When  he  is  nearer  the  great  Soul  of  the  world 
Than  is  man's  custom,  and  possesses  freely 
The  power  of  questioning  his  destiny : 
And  such  a  moment  'twas,  when  in  the  night 
Before  the  action  in  the  plains  of  Liitzen, 
Leaning  against  a  tree,  thoughts  crowding  thoughts, 
I  looked  out  far  upon  the  ominous  plain. 
My  whole  life,  past  and  future,  in  this  moment 
Before  my  mind's  eye  glided  in  procession, 
And  to  the  destiny  of  the  next  morning 
The  spirit,  filled  with  anxious  presentiment, 
Did  knit  the  most  removed  futurity. 
Then  said  I  also  to  myself,  *'  So  many 
Dost  thou  command,    They  follow  all  thy  stars, 
And  as  on  some  great  number  set  their  All 
Upon  thy  single  head,  and  only  man 
The  vessel  of  thy  fortune.    Yet  a  day 
Will  come,  when  Destiny  shall  once  more  scatter 
All  these  in  many  a  several  direction  : 
Few  be  they  who  will  stand  out  faithful  to  thee." 
I  yearn'd  to  know  which  one  was  faithfullest 
Of  all,  this  camp  included.    Great  Destiny, 
Give  me  a  sign !    And  he  shall  be  the  man, 
Who,  on  the  approaching  morning,  comes  the  first 
To  meet  me  with  a  token  of  his  love : 
And  thinking  this,  I  fell  into  a  slumber. 
Then  midmost  in  the  battle  was  I  led 
In  spirit.    Great  the  pressure  and  the  tumult ! 
Then  was  my  horse  killed  under  me :  I  sauk ; 
And  over  me  away,  all  unconcernedly, 
Drove  horse  and  rider — and  thus  trod  to  pieces 
I  lay,  and  panted  like  a  dying  man. 
Then  seized  me  suddenly  a  saviour  arm. 
It  was  Octavio's— I  awoke  at  once. 
'Twas  broad  day,  and  Octavio  stood  before  me. 
"  My  brother,"  said  he,  "  do  not  ride  to-day 
"  The  dapple,  as  you're  wont ;  but  mount  the  horse 
"  Which  I  have  chosen  for  thee.    Do  it,  brother ! 
"  In  love  for  me.    A  strong  dream  warned  me  so." 
It  was  the  swiftness  of  this  horse  that  snatched  me 
From  the  hot  pursuit  of  Bannier's  dragoons. 
My  cousin  rode  the  dapple  on  that  day, 
And  never  more  saw  I  or  horse  or  rider. 

lllo.  That  was  a  chance. 

Wai.  (ritjnificantly.)         There's  no  such  thing  as  chance. 
In  brief,  'tis  signed  and  sealed  that  this  Octavio 
Is  my  good  angel — and  now  no  word  more.   [He  is  retiring. 

Tert.  This  is  my  comfort — Max.  remains  our  hostage. 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  345 

Illo.  And  he  shall  never  stir  from  here  alive. 

Wai,  (stops  and  turns  himself  round.)    Are  ye  not  like  the 

women,  who  for  ever 
Only  recur  to  their  first  word,  although 
One  had  been  talking  reason  Uy  the  hour  ? 
Know,  that  the  human  being's  thoughts  and  deeds 
Are  not,  like  ocean  billows,  blindly  moved. 
The  inner  world,  his  microcosrnus,  is 
The  deep  shaft,  out  of  which  they  spring  eternally. 
They  grow  by  certain  laws,  like  the  tree's  fruit  — 
No  juggling  chance  can  metamorphose  them. 
Have  I  the  human  kernel  first  examined  ? 
Then  I  know,  too,  the  future  will  and  action. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Chamber  in  PICCOLOMINI'S  Dwelling-House. 
OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  IsOLANi,  entering. 

Isol.  Here  am  I — Well !  who  comes  yet  of  the  others  ? 

Oct.  (icithan  air  of  mystery.)  But,  first,  a  word  with  you, 
Count  Isoiani. 

Isol.  (assuming  the  same  air  of  mystery.)    Will  it  explode, 

ha  ? — Is  the  Duke  about 

To  make  the  attempt  I    In  me,  friend,  you  may  place 
Full  confidence. — Nay,  put  me  to  the  proof. 

Oct.  That  may  happen. 

Iso.  Noble  brother,  I  am 

Not  one  of  those  men  who  in  words  are  valiant, 
And  when  it  comes  to  action. skulk  away. 
The  Duke  has  acted  towards  me  as  a  friend. 

God  knows  it  is  so  ;  and  I  owe  him  all 

He  may  rely  on  my  fidelity. 

Oct.  That  will  be  seen  hereafter. 

Iso.  -Be  on  your  guard. 

All  think  not  as  I  think ;  and  there  are  many 
Who  still  hold  with  the  Court — yes,  and  they  say 
That  those  stolen  signatures  bind  them  to  nothing. 

Oct.  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it. 

Iso.  You  rejoice ! 

Oct.  That  the  Emperor  has  yet  such  gallant  servants, 
And  loving  friends. 

Iso.  Nay,  jeer  not,  I  entreat  you. 

They  are  no  such  worthless  fellows,  I  assure  you. 

Oct.  I  am  assured  already.    God  forbid 
That  I  should  jest! — In  very  serious  earnest 
I  am  rejoiced  to  see  an  honest  cause 
So  strong. 

Iso.           The  Devil ! — what ! — why,  what  means  this  ? 
Are  you  not,  then For  what,  then,  am  I  here? 

Oct.  That  you  may  make  full  declaration,  whether 
You  will  be  called  the  friend  or  enemy 
Of  the  Emperor. 

/so.  (with  an  air  of  defiance.)  That  declaration,  friend, 
o* 


346  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

I'll  make  to  hkn  in  -whom  a  right  is  placed 
To  put  that  question  to  me. 

Oct.  Whether,  Count, 

That  right  is  mine,  this  paper  may  instruct  you. 

Iso.  (stammering.)  Why— *  why — what!    this  is  the    Em- 
peror's hand  and  seal !    '  [Beads. 
"  Whereas  the  officers  collectively 
"  Throughout  our  army  will  obey  the  orders 
"  Of  the  Lieutenant-general  Piccolomini. 

"  As  from  ourselves." Hem  /—Yes  !  so !— Yes!  yes  !— 

I — I  give  you  joy,  Lieutenant-general! 

Oct.  And  you  submit  you  to  the  order  ? 

Iso.  I 

But  you  have  taken  me  so  by  surprise — 
Time  for  reflection  one  must  have 

Oct.  Two  minutes. 

Iso.  My  God!     But  then  the  case  is 

Oct.  Plain  and  simple. 

You  must  declare  you,  whether  you  determine 
To  act  a  treason  'gainst  your  Lord  and  Sovereign, 
Or  whether  you  will  serve  him  faithfully. 

Iso.  Treason  !  My  God ! — But  who  talks  then  of  treason  f 

Oct.  That  is  the  case.     The  Prince-duke  is  a  traitor — 
Means  to  lead  over  to  the  enemy 

The  Emperor's  army. — Now,  Count! — brief  and  full- 
Say,  will  you  break  your  oath  to  the  Emperor  ? 
Sell  yourself  to  the  enemy  f — .Say,  will  you  ? 

Iso.  What  mean  you  ?    I — I  break  my  oath,  d'ye  say, 
To  his  Imperial  Majesty? 
Did  I  s  ly  so  ?— When,  when  have  I  said  that  ? 

Oct.  You  have  not  said  it  yet — not  yet.    This  instant 
I  wait  to  hear,  Count,  whether  you  will  say  it. 

Iso.  Ay !  that  delights  me  now,  that  you  yourself 
Bear  witness  for  me  that  I  never  said  so. 

Oct.  And  you  renounce  the  Duke  then  ? 

Iso.  If  he's  planning 

Treason — why,  treason  breaks  all  bonds  asunder. 

Oct.  And  are  determined,  too,  to  fight  against  him  f 

Iso.  Ho  has  done  me  service — but  if  he's  a  villain, 
Perdition  seize  him !  -All  scores  are  rubbed  off. 

Oct.  I  am  rejoiced  that  you're  so  well  disposed. 
This  night  break  off  in  the  utmost  sccresy 
With  all  the  light-armed  troops— it  must  appear 
As  came  the  order  from  the  Duke  himself. 
At  Frauenberg's  the  place  of  rendezvous ; 
There  will  Count  Galas  give  you  further  orders. 

Iso.  It  shall  be  done.    But  you'll  remember  me 
With  the  Emperor— how  well-disposed  you  found  me. 

Oct.  I  will  not  fail  to  mention  it  honourably. 

[Exit  ISOLANI.    A  Servant  enters. 
What,  Colonel  Butler!— Shew  him  up.  [father ! 

Iso.  (returning.)  Forgive  me  too  my  bearish  ways,  old 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  347 

Lord  God  !  how  should  I  know,  then,  what  a  great 
Person  I  had  before  me. 

Oct.  No  excuses ! 

Iso.  I  am  a  merry  lad,  and  if  at  times 
A  rash  word  might  escape  mo  'gainst  the  court 
Amidst  my  wine — You  know  no  harm  was  meant.       [ Exit. 

Oct.  You  need  not  he  uneasy  on  that  score. 
That  has  succeeded.     Fortune  favour  us 
With  all  the  others  only  hut  as  much  ! 

SCENE  V. — OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMIXI,  BUTLER 

But.  At  your  command,  Lieutenant-general. 

Oct.  Welcome,  as  honoured  friend  and  visitor. 

But.  You  do  me  too  much  honour. 

Oct.  (after  both  have  seated  themselves.)  You  have  not 
Returned  the  advances  which  I  made  you  yesterday- 
Misunderstood  them,  as  mere  empty  forms. 
That  wish  proceeded  from  my  heart— I  was 
In  earnest  with  you — for  'tis  now  a  time 
In  which  the  honest  should  unite  most  closely. 

But.  'Tis  only  the  like-minded  ca^»  unite. 

Oct.  True!  and  I  name  all  honest  men  like-minded. 
I  never  charge  a  man  but  with  those  acts 
To  which  his  character  deliberately 
Impels  him;  for  alas!  the  violence 
Of  blind  misunderstandings  often  thrusts 
The  very  best  of  us  from  the  right  track. 
You  came  through  Frauenberg.     Did  the  Count  Galas 
Say  nothing  to  you?    Tell  ine.    He's  my  friend. 

But.  His  words  were  lost  on  me. 

Oct.  It  grieves  me  sorely, 

To  hear  it :  for  his  counsel  was  most  wise. 
I  hud  myself  the  like  to  offer. 

But.  Spare 

Yourself  the  trouble — me  th'  embarrassment 
To  have  deserved  so  ill  your  good  opinion. 

Oct.  The  time  is  precious — let  us  talk  openly. 
You  know  how  matters  stand  here.     Wallenstein 
Meditates  treason— I  can  tell  you  further — 
He  has  committed  treason ;  but  few  hours 
Have  past,  since  he  a  covenant  concluded 
With  the  enemy.    The  messengers  are  now 
Full  on  their  way  to  Egra  and  to  Prague. 
To-morrow  he  intends  to  lead  us  over 
To  the  enemy.     But  he  deceives  himself; 
For  Prudence  wakes — the  Emperor  has  still 
Many  and  faithful  friends  here,  and  they  stand 
In  closest  union,  mighty  though  unseen. 
This  manifesto  sentences  the  Duke — 
Recalls  the  obedience  of  the  army  from  him, 
And  summons  all  the  loyal,  all  the  honest, 


348  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

To  join  and  recognize  in  me  their  leader. 
Choose— will  you  share  with  us  an  honest  cause? 
Or  with  the  evil  .share  an  evil  lot. 

But.  (rises.)  His  lot  is  mine. 

Oct.  Is  that  your  last  resolve  ? 

But.  It  is. 

Oct.  Nay,  but  bethink  you,  Colonel  Butler ! 

As  yet  you  have  time.     Within  my  faithful  breast 
That  rashly  uttered  word  remains  interred. 
Uecall  it,  Butler!  choose  a  better  party  : 
You  have  not  chosen  the  right  one. 

But.  (going.)  Any  other 

Commands  for  me,  Lieutenant  General  ? 

Oct.  See  your  white  hairs !    Recall  that  word ! 

But.  Farewell! 

Oct.  What,  would  you  draw  this  good  and  gallant  sword 
In  such  a  cause  ?    Into  a  curse  would  you 
Transform  the  gratitude  which  you  have  earned 
By  forty  years'  fidelity  from  Austria  ? 

But.  (laughing  tvitk  bitterness.)  Gratitude  from  the  house 
of  Austria.  [  He  is  goin;/. 

Oct.  (pei-mits  him  to  go  as  far  as  the  door,  then  calls  after 
him.)    Butler! 

But.  What  wish  you  I 

Oct.  How  was't  with  the  Count? 

But.  Count?  what? 

Oct.  (coldly.)  The  title  that  you  wished  I  mean. 

But.  (starts  in  sudden  passion.)  Hell  and  damnation ! 
*     Oct.  (coldly.)  You  petitioned  for  it— 

And  your  petition  was  repelled — Was  it  so? 

But.  Your  insolent  scoff  shall  not  go  by  unpunished. 
Draw! 

Oct.  Nay!  your  sword  to  'ts  sheath  !  am"*  tell  ine  calmly, 
How  all  that  happened.     I  will  not  refuse  you 
Your  satisfaction  afterwards.— Calmly,  Butler! 

But.  Be  the  whole  world  acquainted  with  the  weakness 
For  which  I  never  can  forgive  myself. 
Lieutenant  General!     Yes— I  have  ambition. 
Ne'er  was  I  able  to  endure  contempt. 
It  stung  me  to  the  quick,  that  birth  and  title 
Should  have  more  weight  than  merit  has  in  the  army. 
I  would  fain  not  be  meaner  than  my  equal, 
So  in  an  evil  hour  I  let  myself 
Be  tempted  to  that  measure — It  was  folly  ! 
But  yet  so  hard  a  penance  it  deserved  not. 
It  might  have  been  refused;   but  wherefore  barb 
And  venom  the  refusal  with  contempt  .' 
Why  dash  to  earth  and  crush  with  heaviest  scorn 
The  grey-haired  man,  the  faithful  Veteran? 
Why  to  the  baseness  of  his  parentage 
Refer  him  with  such  cruel  roughness,  only 
Because  he  had  a  weak  hour  and  forgot  himself? 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  349 

But  nature  gives  a  sting  e'en  to  the  worm 

Which  wanton  Power  treads  on  in  sport  and  insult. 

Oct.  You  must  have  been  calumniated.    Guess  you 
The  enemy,  who  did  you  this  ill-service  I 

But.  Be't  who  it  will — a  most  low-hearted  scoundrel, 
Some  vile  court-minion  must  it  be,  some  Spaniard, 
Some  young  squire  of  some  ancient  family, 
In  whose  light  I  may  stand,  some  envious  knave, 
Stung  to  his  soul  by  my  fair  self-earned  honours  ! 

Oct.  But  tell  me!     Did  the  Duke  approve  that  measure ? 

But.  Himself  impelled  me  to  it,  used  his  interest 
In  my  behalf  with  all  the  warmth  of  friendship. 

Oct.  Ay  f    Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

But.  I  read  the  letter. 

Oct.  And  so  did  I — but  the  contents  were  different. 

[BUTLER  is  suddenly  struck. 
By  chance  I'm  in  possession  of  that  letter — 
Can  leave  it  to  your  own  eyes  to  convince  you. 

[fle  gives  him  the  letter. 

But.  Ha!  what  is  this! 

Oct.  I  fear  me,  Colonel  Butler, 

An  infamous  game  have  they  been  playing  with  you. 
The  Duke,  you  say,  impelled  you  to  this  measure*? 
Now,  in  this  letter  talks  he  in  contempt 
Concerning  you,  counsels  the  Minister 
To  give  sound  chastisement  to  your  conceit, 
For  so  he  calls  it. 

[BUTLER  reads  through  the  letter,  his  knees  tremble, 
he  seizes  a  chair,  and  sinks  down  in  it.  1 

You  have  no  enemy,  no  persecutor  : 
There's  no  one  wishes  ill  to  you.    Ascribe 
The  insult  you  received  to  the  Duke  only. 
His  aim  is  clear  and  palpable.     He  wished 
To  tear  you  from  your  Emperor — he  hoped 
To  gain  from  your  revenge  what  he  well  knew 
(What  your  long-tried  fidelity  convinced  him) 
He  ne'er  could  dare  expect  from  your  calm  reason. 
A  blind  tool  would  he  make  you,  in  contempt 
Use  you,  as  means  of  most  abandoned  ends. 
He  has  gained  his  point.     Too  well  has  he  succeeded 
In  luring  you  away  from  that  good  path 
On  which  you  had^been  journeying  forty  years ! 

But.  (his  voice  trembling.)  Can  e'er  the  Emperor s  Majesty 
forgive  me  ? 

Oct.  More  than  forgive  you.     He  would  fain  compensate 
For  that  affront,  and  most  unmerited  grievance 
Sustained  by  a  deserving,  gallant  veteran. 
From  his  free  impulse  he  confirms  the  present, 
Which  the  Duke  made  you  for  a  wicked  purpose. 
The  regiment,  which  you  now  command,  is  yours. 

[BUTLER  attests  to  rise,  sinks  down  again.     He  la- 
bours inwardly  with  violent  emotions ;  tries  to 


350  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

speak,  and  cannot.    At  length  lie  takes  his  sword 
from  the  belt,  and  offers  it  to  PICCOLOMINI. 

Oct.  What  wish  you?    Recollect  yourself,  friend ! 

But.  Take  it. 

Oct.  But  to  what  purpose  ?    Calm  yourself. 

But.  O  take  it  I 

I  am  no  longer  worthy  of  this  sword. 

Oct.  Receive  it  then  anew  from  my  hands — and 
Wear  it  with  honour  for  the  right  cause  ever. 

But.  Perjure  myself  to  such  a  gracious  Sovereign ! 

Oct.  You'll  make  amends.    Quick!    break  off  from  the 
Duke! 

But.  Break  off  from  him! 

Oct.  What  now  ?    Bethink  thyself. 

But.  (no  longer  governing  his  emotion.)  Only  break  off  from 
him? — He  dies!  he  dies ! 

Oct.  Come  after  me  to  Frauenberg,  where  now 
All  who  are  loyal,  are  assembling  under 
Counts  Altringer  and  Galas.    Many  others 
I've  brought  to  a  remembrance  of  their  duty. 
This  night  bo  sure,  that  you  escape  from  Pilsen. 

But.  (strides  up  and  down  in  excessive  agitation,  then  steps  up 
to  OCTAVIO  with,  resolved  countenance.)    Count  Pic- 
colomini!     Dare  that  man  speak 
Of  honour  to  you,  who  once  broke  his  troth. 

Oct.  He,  who  repents  so  deeply  of  it,  dares. 

But.  Then  leave  me  here,  upon  my  word  of  honour! 

Oct.  What's  your  design  ? 
•     But.  Leave  me  and  my  regiment. 

Oct.  I  have  full  confidence  in  you.    But  tell  mo 
What  are  you  brooding  ? 

But.  That  the  deed  will  tell  you. 

Ask  me  no  more  at  present.     Trust  to  me. 
Ye  may  trust  safely.    By  the  living  God 
Ye  give  him  over,  not  to  his  good  angel ! 
Farewell  [Exit  BUTLER. 

Set:  (enters  ivith  a  billet.)  A  stranger  left  it,  and  is  gonr. 
The  Prince-Duke's  horses  wait  for  you  below.  [  Exit  Servant. 

Oct.  (reads.)  "  Be  sure,  make  haste  !  Your  faithful  Jsoln.ii." 
— O  that  I  had  but  left  this  town  behind  me. 
To  split  upon  a  rock  so  near  the  haven ! 
Away !  This  is  no  longer  a  safe  place  for  me ! 
Where  can  my  sou  be  tarrying  ? 


SCENE  VL— OCTAVIO  and  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

[MAX.  enters  almost  in  a  state  of  derangement  from  extreme 
agitation,  his  eyes  roll  wildly,  his  walk  is  unsteady,  and 
he  appears  no  tto  observe  his  father,  who  stands  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  gazes  at  him  with  a  countenance  expressive  of  com- 
passion. He  paces  with  long  strides  through  the  chamber, 


FIRST  PART  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  351 

then  stands  still  again,  and  at  last  throws  himself  into  a 
chair,  staring  vacantly  at  the  object  directly  before  him. 

Oct.  (advances  to  him.)  I  am  going  off,  iny  son. 

[Receiving  no  answer  he  takes  his  hand. 
My  son,  farewell. 

Max.  Farewell. 

Oct.  Thou  wilt  soon  follow  me  ? 

Max.  I  follow  thee? 

Thy  way  is  crooked — it  is  not  iny  way. 

[OCTAVIO  drops  his  hand,  and  starts  hack. 
0,  hadst  thou  been  but  simple  and  sincere, 
Ne'er  had  it  come  to  this — all  had  stood  otherwise. 
He  had  not  done  that  foul  and  horrible  deed, 
The  virtuous  had  retained  their  influence  o'er  him : 
He  had  not  fallen  into  the  snares  of  villains. 
Wherefore  so  like  a  thief,  and  thief's  accomplice 
Did'st  creep  behind  him— lurking  for  thy  prey  ? 
O,  unblest  falsehood  ?  Mother  of  all  evil ! 
Thou  misery -making  daemon,  it  is  thou 
Tbatsink'st  us  in  perdition.    Simple  truth, 
Sustainer  of  the  world,  had  saved  us  all ! 
Father,  I  will  not,  I  cannot  excuse  thee  ! 
Wallenstein  has  deceived  me— O,  most  foully! 
But  thou  hast  acted  not  much  better. 

Oct.  Son  I 

My  son,  ah!  I  forgive  thy  agony ! 
Max.  (rises,  and  contemplates  his  father  with  looks  of  suspicion.) 

Was't  possible  ?  had'st  thou  the  heart,  my  father, 
Had'st  thou  the  heart  to  drive  it  to  such  lengths, 
With  cold  premeditated  purpose?    Thou — 
Had'st  thou  the  heart,  to  wish  to  see  him  guilty, 
Rather  than  saved  ?    Thou  risest  by  his  fall. 
Octavio,  'twill  not  please  me. 

Oct.  God  in  Heaven ! 

Max.  O,  woe  is  me !  sure  I  have  changed  my  nature. 
How  comes  suspicion  here— in  the  free  soul  I 
Hope,  confidence,  belief,  are  gone ;  for  all 
Lied  to  me,  all  what  I  e'er  loved  or  honoured. 
No!  No!  Not  all!  Stte — she  yet  lives  for  me, 
And  she  is  true,  and  open  as  the  Heavens  I 
Deceit  is  everywhere,  hypocrisy, 
Murder  and  poisoning,  treason,  perjury  : 
The  single  holy  spot  is  our  love, 
The  only  unprofaned  in  human  nature. 

Oct.  Max! — we  will  go  together.    'Twill  be  better. 

Max.  What?  ere  I've  taken  a  last  parting  leave, 
The  very  last — no,  never! 

Oct.    '  Spare  thyself 

The  pang  of  necessary  separation.  [him. 

Come  with  me!  Come,  my  son!     [Attempts  to  take  him  with 

Oct.  (more  urgently  )  Come  with  me,  I  command  thee  !  I, 
thy  father. 


352  THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE 

Max.  No!  as  sure  as  God  lives,  no! 

Max.  Command  me  what  is  human.    I  stay  here. 

Oct.  Max !  in  the  Emperor's  name  I  bid  thee  come. 

Max.  No  Emperor  hath  power  to  prescribe 
Laws  to  the  heart ;  and  wouldst  thou  wish  to  rob  me 
Of  the  sole  blessing  which  my  fate  has  left  me, 
Her  sympathy.     Must  then  a  cruel  deed 
Be  done  with  cruelty?    The  unalterable 
Shall  I  perform  ignobly— steal  away 
With  stealthy  coward  flight  forsake  her?    No  ! 
She  shall  behold  my  suffering,  my  sore  anguish, 
Hear  the  complaints  of  the  disparted  soul, 
And  weep  tears  o'er  me.     Oh !  the  human  race 
Have  steely  souls — but  she  is  as  an  angel. 
From  the  black  deadly  madness  of  despair 
Will  she  redeem  my  soul,  and  in  soft  words 
Of  comfort,  plaining,  loose  this  pang  of  death  ! 

Oct.  Thou  will  not  tear  thyself  away,  thou  canst  not, 
O,  come,  my  son !  I  bid  thee  save  thy  virtue. 

Max..  Squander  not  thou  thy  words  in  vain. 
The  heart  I  follow,  for  I  dare  trust  to  it. 

Oct.   (trembling,  and  losing  all  self-command.}  Max!  M;ix! 

if  that  most  damned  thing  could  be, 
If  thou — my  sou — my  own  blood— (dare  1  think  it  ?) 
Do  sell  thyself  to  him,  the  infamous, 
Do  stamp  this  brand  upon  our  noble  house, 
Then  shall  the  world  behold  the  horrible  deed, 
And  in  unnatural  combat  shall  the  steel 
Of  the  son  trickle  with  the  father's  blood. 

Max.  O  hadst  thou  always  better  thought  of  men, 
Thou  hadst  then  acted  better.    Curst  suspicion  1 
Unholy,  miserable  doubt!    To  him 
Nothing  on  earth  remains  un wrenched  and  firm, 
Who  has  no  faith. 

Oct.  And  if  I  trust  thy  heart, 
Will  it  be  always  be  in  thy  power  to  follow  it  ?          [little 

Max.  The  heart's   voice  thou  hast  not  o'erpower'd  —  aa 
Will  Walleustein  be  able  to  o'erpower  it. 

<hl.  O,  Max  !  I  see  thee  never  more  again  ! 

Max.  Unworthy  of  thee  wilt  thou  never  see  me. 

Oct.  I  go  to  Frauenberg — the  Pappeuheimera 
I  leave  thee  here,  the  Lothrings  too:  Toskaua 
And  Tiefenbach  remain  here  to  protect  thee. 
They  love  thee,  and  are  faithful  to  their  oath, 
And  will  far  rather  fall  in  gallant  contest 
Than  leave  their  rightful  leader  and  their  honour. 

Max.  Rely  on  this,  I  either  leave  my  life 
In  the  struggle,  or  conduct  them  out  of  Pilseu. 

Oct.  Farewell,  my  son  ! 

Max.  Farewell ! 

Oct.  How  ?  not  one  look 

Of  filial  love  ?    No  grasp  of  the  hand  at  parting  I 


FIRST  PART  OF  W  ALLEN  STEIN.  353 

It  is  a  bloody  war,  to  which  we  are  going, 
And  the  event  uncertain  and  in  darkness. 
So  used  we  not  to  part — it  was  not  so ! 
Is  it  then  true  ?  I  have  a  son  no  longer  ? 

ZZs  into  his  arms,  they  liold  each  for  a  long  time  in 
a  speechless  embrace,  then  go  away  at  different  sides. 


THE  CURTAIN  DROPS. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIK 

A  TRAGEDY.    IN  FIVE  ACTS. 

PREFACE  OF  THE  TRANSLATOR. 

THE  two  Dramas,  PiccoLOMixt,  or  the  first  part  of  WALLKVSTKIN, 
and  WALLENSTKIN,  are  introduced  in  the  original  manuscript  by  a 
Prelude  in  one  Act,  entitled  WALLKNSTKIN'B  CAMP.  This  is  written  in 
rhyme,  and  in  nine-syllable  verse,  in  the  same  lilting  metre  (if  that 
expression  may  be  permitted)  with  the  second  Eclogue  of  Spenser's 
Shepherd's  Calendar. 

This  Prelude  possesses  a  sort  of  broad  humour,  and  is  not  deficient 
in  character  ;  but  to  have  translated  it  into  prose,  or  into  any  other 
metre  than  that  of  the  original,  would  have  given  a  false  idea  both 
of  its  style  and  purport;  to  have  translated  it  into  the  same  metre 
would  have  been  incompatible  with  a  faithful  adherence  to  the  sense 
of  the  German,  from  the  comparative  poverty  of  our  language  in 
rhymes;  and  it  would  have  been  unadvisable  from  the  incongruity 
of  those  lax  verses  with  the  present  taste  of  the  English  Public. 
Schiller's  intention  seems  to  have  been  merely  to  have  prepared  iiis 
reader  for  the  Tragedies  by  a  lively  picture  of  the  laxity  of  discipline, 
and  the  mutinous  dispositions  of  Wallenstein's  soldiery.  It  is  not 
necessary  as  a  preliminary  explanation.  For  these  reasons  it  has 
been  thought  expedient  not  to  translate  it. 

The  admirers  of  Schiller,  who  have  abstracted  their  idea  of  that 
author  from  the  Robbers,  and  the  Cabal  and  Love,  plays  in  which 
the  main  interest  is  produced  by  the  excitement  of  curiosity,  and  in 
which  the  curiosity  in  excited  by  terrible  and  extraordinary  incident, 
will  not  have  perused  without  some  portion  of  disappointment  the 
Dramas,  which  it  has  been  my  employment  to  translate.  They 
should,  however,  reflect  that  these  are  Historical  Dramas,  taken 
from  a  popular  German  History;  that  we  must  therefore  judge  of 
them  in  some  measure  with  the  feelings  of  Germans;  or  by  analogy, 
with  the  interest  excited  in  us  by  similar  Dramas  in  our  own  lan- 
guage. Few,  I  trust,  would  be  rash  or  ignorant  enough  to  compare 
Wchiller  with  Shakspeare;  yet,  merely  as  illustration,  I  would  say 
that  we  should  proceed  to  the  perusal  of  Wallenstein,  not  from  Lear 
or  Othello,  but  trom  Richard  the  Second,  or  the  three  parts  of  Henry 
the  Sixth.  We  scarcely  expect  rapidity  in  an  Historical  Drama;  and 
many  prolix  speeches  are  pardoned  from  characters,  whose  names 
and  actions  have  formed  the  most  amusing  tales  of  our  early  life. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  exist  in  these  plays  more  individual  beau- 
ties, more  passages,  whose  excellence  will  bear  reflection,  than  in 
the  former  productions  of  Schiller.  The  description  of  the  Astrolog- 
ical Tower,  and  the  reflections  of  the  Young  Lover,  which  follow  it, 
form  in  the  original  a  fine  poem  ;  and  my  translation  must  have 
been  wretched  indeed,  if  it  can  have  wholly  overclouded  the  beauties 
of  the  Scene  in  the  first  Act  of  the  first  Play  between  Questenberg, 
Max.  and  Octavio  Piccolomini.  If  we  except  the  Scene  of  the  setting 
sun  in  the  Robbers,  I  know  of  no  part  in  Schiller's  Plays  which  equals 
the  whole  of  the  first  Scene  of  the  fifth  Act  of  the  concluding  Play. 
It  would  be  unbecoming  in  me  to  be  more  diffuse  on  this  subject.  A 
Translator  stands  connected  with  the  original  Author  by  a  certain 
law  of  subordination,  which  makes  it  more  decorous  to  point  out 
excellencies  than  defects:  indeed  he  is  not  likely  to  be  a  fair  judge 
of  either.  The  pleasure  or  disgust  from  his  own  labour  will  mingle 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  355 

with  the  feelings  that  arise  from  an  after-view  of  the  original.  Even 
in  the  first  perusal  of  a  work  in  any  foreign  language  which  we 
understand,  we  are  apt  to  attribute  to  it  more  excellence  than  it 
really  possesses  from  our  own  pleasurable  sense  of  difficulty  over- 
come without  effort.  Translation  of  poetry  into  poetry  is  difficult, 
because  the  Translator  must  give  a  brilliancy  to  his  language  without 
that  warmth  of  original  conception,  from  which  such  brilliancy 
would  follow  of  its  own  accord.  But  the  Translator  of  a  living  Au- 
thor is  encumbered  with  additional  inconveniences.  If  he  render 
his  original  faithfully,  as  to  the  sense  of  each  passage,  he  must 
necessarily  destroy  a  considerable  portion  of  the  spirit;  if  he  en- 
deavour to  give  a  work  executed  according  to  laws  of  compensation, 
he  subjects  himself  to  imputations  of  vanity,  or  misrepresentation. 
I  have  thought  it  my  duty  to  remain  bound  by  the  sense  of  my 
original,  with  as  few  exceptions  as  the  nature  of  the  languages 
rendered  possible. 

S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

WALLKNSTEIN,  Duke  of  Friedland,  Generalissimo  of  the  Imperial 
Forces  in  1he  Thirty-years'1  War. 

DUCHESS  OF  FUIEDLAND,  Wife  of  WALLENSTEIN. 

THEKLA.  her  Daughter,  Princess  of  Friedland. 

THE  COUNTESS  TERTSKY,  Sister  of  the  Duchess. 

LADY  NEUBRUNN. 

OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  Lieutenant-Generol. 

MAX.  PICCOLOMIM,  his  Son,  Colonel  of  a  Regiment  of  Cuirassiers. 

COUNT  TERTSKY,  the  Commander  of  several  Regiments,  and  Brother- 
in-law  of  WALLENSTEIN. 

ILLO,  Field  Marshal,  WALLENSTEIN'S  Confidant. 

BUTL.ER,  an  Irishman,  Commander  of  a  Regiment  of  Dragoons. 

GORDON,  Governor  of  Egra. 

MAJOR  GERALDIN. 

CAPTAIN  DEVEREUX. 

CAPTAIN  MACDONALD. 

NEUMANN,  Captain  of  Cavalry,  Aide-de-Camp  to  TERTSKY. 

SWEDISH  CAPTAIN. 

SENI. 

BURGOMASTER  of  Egra. 

ANSPESSADE  of  the  Cuirassiers. 

2S2ST  THE  °HAMBER'   \  Belonging  to  the  Duke. 
CUIRASSIERS,  DRAGOONS,  SERVANTS. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — A  Chamber  in  the  house  of  the  DUCHESS  of  FRIED- 
LAND.  COUNTESS  TERTSKY,  THEKLA,  LADY  NEUBRUNN. 
(The  two  latter  sit  at  the  same  table  at  work.) 

Coun.  (watching  them  from  the  opposite  side.)     So  you  have 

nothing,  niece,  to  ask  me  ?    Nothing  ? 
I  have  been  waiting  for  a  word  from  you, 
And  could  you  then  endure  in  all  this  time 
Not  once  to  speak  his  name  f 

[THEKLA  remaining  silent,  the  Countess  rises  and  ad- 
vances to  her. 

Why,  how  comes  this  ? 


355  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Perhaps  I  am  already  grown  superfluous, 
And  other  ways  exist,  besides  through  me  ? 
Confess  ifc  to  rne,  Thekla !  have  you  seen  him  ? 

Thek.  To-day  and  yesterday  I 'have  not  seen  him. 

Coun.  And  not  heard  from  him  either  ?    Come,  be  open ! 

Thek.  No  syllable. 

Conn.  And  still  you  are  so  calm  ? 

Thek.  I  am. 

Coun.  May't  please  you,  leave  us.  Lady  Neubrunn ! 

[  Exit  LADY  NEUBRUNN. 

SCENE  II. — The  COUNTESS,  THEKLA. 

Coun.  It  does  not  please  me.  Princess !  that  he  holds 
Himself  so  still,  exactly  at  this  time. 

Thek.  Exactly  at  this  time  ? 

Conn.  He  now  knows  all. 

;Twere  now  the  moment  to  declare  himself. 

Thek.  If  I'm  to  understand  you,  speak  less  darkly. 

Coun.  'Twas  for  that  purpose  that  I  bade  her  leave  us. 
Thekla,  you  are  no  more  a  child.    Your  heart 
Is  now  no  more  in  nonage :  for  you  low, 
And  boldness  dwells  with  love — that  you  have  proved. 
Your  nature  moulds  itself  upon  your  father's 
More  than  your  mother's  spirit.     Therefore  may  you 
Hear,  what  were  too  much  for  her  fortitude. 

Thek.  Enough  !  no  further  preface,  I  entreat  you. 
At  once,  out  with  it !    Be  i  t  w  hat  i t  may, 
It  is  not  possible  that  it  should  torture  mo 
More  than  this  introduction.     "What  have  you 
To  say  to  me  f    Tell  me  the  whole,  and  briefly ! 

Coun.  You'll  not  be  frightened — 

Thek.  Name  it,  I  entreat  you. 

Coun.  It  lies  within  your  power  to  do  your  father 
A  weighty  service — 

Thek.  Lies  within  my  power  ? 

Conn.  Max.  Piccoloniini  loves  you.     You  can  link  him 
Indissolubly  to  your  father. 

Thek.  I? 

What  need  of  me  for  that?    And  is  he  not 
Already  linked  to  him  ? 

Conn.  He  was. 

Thek.  And  wherefore 

Should  he  not  be  so  now — not  bo  so  always  f 

Coun.  He  cleaves  to  the  Emperor  too. 

Thek.  Not  more  than  duty 

And  honour  may  demand  of  him. 

Coun.  We  ask 

Proofs  of  his  love,  and  not  proofs  of  his  honour. 
Duty  and  honour! 

Those  are  ambiguous  words  with  many  meanings. 
You  should  interpret  them  for  him  :  his  love 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


357 


Should  be  the  sole  definer  of  bis  honour. 

TJtek.  How  f 

Coun.  The  Emperor  or  you  must  be  renounce. 

TJtek.  He  will  accompany  my  father  gladly 
In  his  retirement.  From  himself  you  heard, 
How  much  he  wished  to  lay  aside  the  sword. 

Coun.  He  must  not  lay  the  sword  aside,  Ave  mean ; 
He  must  unsheath  it  in  your  father's  cause. 

Thek.  He'll  spend  with  gladness  and  alacrity 
His  life,  his  heart's  blood  in  my  father's  cause. 
If  shame  orinjury  be  intended  him. 

Coun.  You  will  not  understand  me.    Well,  hear  then ! 
Your  father  has  fallen  off  from  the  Emperor, 
And  is  about  to  join  the  enemy 
With  the  whole  soldiery — 

Thek.  Alas,  my  mother ! 

Conn.  There  needs  a  great  example  to  draw  on 
The  army  after  him.     The  Piccolomini 
Possess  the  love  and  reverence  of  the  troops ; 
They  govern  all  opinions,  and  wherever 
They  lead  the  way,  none  hesitate  to  follow. 
The  sou  secures  the  father  to  our  interests — 
You've  much  in  your  hands  at  this  moment. 

Thek.  Ah, 

My  miserable  mother !  what  a  death-stroke 
Awaits  thee ! — No !    She  never  will  survive  it. 

Coun.  She  will  accommodate  her  soul  to  that 
Which  is  and  must  be.    I  do  know  your  mother. 
The  far-off  future  weighs  upon  her  heart 
With  torture  of  anxiety ;   but  is  it 
Unalterably,  actually  present, 
She  soon  resigns  herself,  and  bears  it  calmly. 

Thek.  Orny  foreboding  bosom!    Even  now, 
E'en  now,  'tis  here,  that  icy  hand  of  horror  ! 
And  my  young  hope  lies  shuddering  in  its  grasp. 
I  knew  it  well — no  sooner  had  I  entered, 
An  heavy  ominous  presentiment 
Revealed  to  me,  that  spirits  of  death  wero  hovering 
Over  my  happy  fortune.     But  why  think  I 
First  of  myself?     My  mother!     O  my  mother ! 

Conn.  Calm  yourself!    Break  not  out  in  vain  lamenting! 
Preserve  you  for  your  father  the  firm  friend, 
And  for  yourself  the  lover,  all  will  yet 
Prove  good  and  fortunate. 

Thek.  Prove  good?    What  good? 
Must  we  not  part?     Part  ne'er  to  meet  again  ? 

Coun.  He  parts  not  from  you !    He  cannot  part  from  you. 

Thek.  Alas  for  his  sore  anguish !    It  will  rend 
His  heart  asunder. 

Coun.  If  indeed  he  loves  you, 

His  resolution  will  be  speedily  taken. 

Thek.  His  resolution  will  be  speedily  taken — 


358 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


0  do  not  doubt  of  that !   A  resolution ! 
Does  there  remain  one  to  be  taken  ? 

Coun.  Hush ! 

Collect  yourself!     I  hear  your  mother  coming. 
Thek.  Hovr  shall  I  bear  to  see  her  ? 
Coun.  Collect  yourself. 

SCENE  III. — To  them  enter  the  DUCHESS. 

Duck,  (to  the  COUNTESS.)    Who  was  here,  sister?  I  heard 

some  one  talking, 
And  passionately  too. 

Conn.  Nay !    There  was  no  one. 

Duch.  1  am  grown  so  timorous,  every  trifling  noise 
Scatters  my  spirits,  and  announces  to  me 
The  footstep  of  some  messenger  of  evil. 
And  can  you  tell  me,  sister,  what  the  event  is  ? 
Will  he  agree  to  do  the  Emperor's  pleasure, 
And  send  the  horse-regiments  to  the  Cardinal? 
Tell  me,  has  he  dismissed  Von  Questenberg 
With  a  favorable  answer  ? 

Coun.  No,  he  has  not. 

Duch.  Alas !  then  all  is  lost !  I  see  it  coming, 
The  worst  that  can  come !    Yes,  they  will  depose  him ; 
The  accursed  business  of  the  Regenspurg  diet 
Will  all  be  acted  o'er  again! 

Coun.  No!  never! 

Make  your  heart  easy,  sister,  as  to  that. 

[THKKLA,  in'  extreme  agitation,  throws  herself  upon 
her  mother,  and  enfolds  her  in  her  arms,  weeping. 

Duch.  Yes,  my  poor  child ! 

Thou  too  hast  lost  a  most  affectionate  godmother 
In  the  Empress.    O  that  stern  unbending  man ! 
In  this  unhappy  marriage  what  have  I 
Not  suffered,  not  endured.     For  ev'n  as  if 

1  luid  been  linked  on  to  some  wheel  of  fire 

That  restless,  ceaseless,  whirls  impetuous  onward, 

I  have  passed  a  life  of  frights  and  horrors  with  him, 

And  ever  to  the  brink  of  some  abyss 

With  dizzy  headlong  violence  he  whirls  me. 

Nay,  do  not  weep,  my  child!    Let  not  my  sufferings 

Presignify  unhappiness  to  thee, 

Nor  blacken  with  their  shade  the  fate  that  waits  thee. 

There  lives  no  second  Friedland :  thou,  my  child, 

Hast  not  to  fear  thy  mother's  destiny. 

Thek.  O  let  us  supplicate  him,  dearest  mother! 
Quick!  quick!  here's  no  abiding-place  for  us. 
Here  every  coming  hour  broods  into  life 
Some  new  anrightiiil  monster. 

Duch.  Thou  wilt  share 

An  easier,  calmer  lot,  my  child !     We  too, 
I  and  thy  father,  witnessed  happy  days. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  359 

Still  think  I  with  delight  of  those  first  years, 

When  he  was  making  progress  with  glad  effort, 

When  his  ambition  was  a  genial  fire, 

Not  that  consuming  flame  which  now  it  is. 

The  Emperor  loved  him,  trusted  him  :  and  all 

He  undertook  could  not  but  be  successful. 

But  since  that  ill-starred  day  at  Regenspurg, 

Which  plunged  him  headlong  from  his  dignity, 

A  gloomy  uncompanionable  spirit. 

Unsteady  and  suspicious,  has  possessed  him. 

His  quiet  mind  forsook  him,  and  no  longer 

Did  he  yield  up  himself  in  joy  and  faith 

To  his  old  link,  and  individual  power ; 

But  thenceforth  turned  his  heart  and  best  affections 

All  to  those  cloudy  sciences,  which  never 

Have  yet  made  happy  him  who  followed  them. 

Conn.  You  see  it,  sister!  as  your  eyes  permit  you. 
But  surely  this  is  not  the  conversation 
To  pass  the  time  in  which  we  are  waking  for  him. 
You  know  he  will  be  soon  here.    Wo*uld  you  have  him 
Find  her  in  this  condition  ? 

Duch.  Come,  my  child! 

Come  wipe  away  thy  tears,  and  show  thy  father 
A  cheerful  countenance.     See,  the  tie-knot  here 
Is  off— this  hair  must  not  hang  so  dishevelled. 
Come,  dearest!   dry  thy  tears  up.     They  deform 
Thy  gentle  eye — well  no w%- what  was  I  saying  ? 
Yes,  in  good  truth,  this  Piccolomini 
Is  a  most  noble  and  deserving  gentleman. 

Conn.  That  is  he,  sister! 

Thek.  (to  the  COUNTESS,  with  marks  of  great  oppression  of 
spirits.)  Aunt,  you  will  excuse  me?  [Is going. 

Coun.  But  whither?    See,  your  father  comes. 

Thek.  I  cannot  see  him  now. 

Coun.  Nay,  but  bethink  you. 

Thek.  Believe  me,  I  cannot  sustain  his  presence. 

Coun.  But  he  will  miss  you,  will  ask  after  you. 

Duch.  What  now  ?    Why  is  she  going  ? 

Coun.  She's  not  well. 

Duch.  (anxiously.)  What  ails  then  my  beloved  child  ? 
[Both  follow  the  PRINCESS,  and  endeavour  to  detain  her. 
During  this  WALLENSTEIN  appears,  engaged  in  con- 
versation with  ILLO. 

SCENE   IV.— WALLENSTEIN,    ILLO,    COUNTESS,  DUCHESS 
THEKLA. 

Wai.  All  quiet  in  the  camp  I 

Illo.  It  is  all  quiet. 

Wai.  In  a  few  hours  may  couriers  come  from  Prague 
With  tidings  that  this  capital  is  ours. 
Then  we  may  drop  the  mask,  and  to  the  troops 


360  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Assembled  in  this  town  make  known  the  measure 

And  its  result  together.    In  such  cases 

Example  does  the  whole.    Whoever  is  foremost 

Still  leads  the  herd.    An  imitative  creature 

Is  man.    The  troops  at  Prague  conceive  no  other, 

Than  that  the  Pilsen  army  has  gone  through 

The  forms  of  homage  to  us ;  and  in  Pilsen 

They  shall  swear  fealty  to  us,  because 

The  example  has  been  given  them  by  Prague. 

Butler,  you  tell  me,  has  declared  himself.  » 

Illo.  At  his  own  bidding,  unsolicited, 
He  came  to  offer  you  himself  and  regiment. 

Wai.  I  find  we  must  not  give  implicit  credence 
To  every  warning  voice  that  makes  itself 
Be  listened  to  in  the  heart.    To  hold  us  back, 
Oft  does  the  lying  spirit  counterfeit 
The  voice  of  Truth  and  inward  Revelation, 
Scattering  false  oracles.    And  thus  have  I 
To  intreat  forgiveness,  for  that  secretly 
I've  wronged  this  honourable  gallant  man, 
This  Butler:  for  a  feeling  of  the  which 
I  am  not  master  (fear  I  would  not  call  it) 
Creeps  o'er  me  instantly,  with  sense  of  shuddering, 
At  his  approach,  and  stops  love's  joyous  motion. 
And  this  same  man,  against  whom  I  am  warned, 
This  honest  man  is  he,  who  reaches  to  me 
The  first  pledge  of  my  fortune. 

Illo.  llnd  doubt  not 

That  his  example  will  win  over  to  you 
The  best  men  in  the  army. 

Wai.  Go  and  send 

Isolani  hither.    Send  him  immediately. 
He  is  under  recent  obligations  to  me. 
With  him  will  I  commence  the  trial.    Go.  [Exit  ILLO. 

Wai.  (turns  hiimelf  round  to  the  females.)    Lo,  there  the 

mother  with  the  darling  daughter, 
For  once  we'll  have  an  interval  of  rest — 
Come !  my  heart  yearns  to  live  a  cloudless  hour 
In  the  beloved  circle  of  my  family. 

Coun.  'Tis  long  since  we've  been  thus  together,  brother.' 

Wai.  (to  the  COUNTESS  oxide.)  Can  she  sustain  the  uewsf 
Is  she  prepared? 

Conn.  Not  yet 

Wai.  Come  here,  my  sweet  girl !  Seat  thee  by  me. 

For  there  is  a  good  spirit  on  thy  lips. 
Thy  mother  praised  to  me  thy  ready  skill : 
She  says  a  voice  of  melody  dwells  in  thee, 
Which  doth  enchant  the  soul.    Now  such  a  voice 
Will  drive  away  for  me  the  evil  dramou 
That  beats  his  black  wings  close  above  my  head. 

Ditch.   Where  is  thy  lute,  my  daughter  ?    Let  thy  father 
Hear  some  small  trial  of  thy  skill. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  361 

TheJc.  My  mother ! 

Duck.  Trembling  ?    Come,  collect  thyself.    Go,  cheer 
Thy  father. 

Thek.  O  my  mother !    I — I  cannot. 

Conn.  How,  what  is  that,  niece? 

Thek.  (to  the  COUNTESS.)  O  spare  me — sing — now — in  this 

sore  anxiety, 

Of  the  o'erburthen'd  soul — to  sing  to  him, 
Who  is  thrusting,  even  now,  my  mother  headlong 
Into  her  grave. 

Duch.  How,  Thekla  ?    Humoursoine  ? 

What ;  shall  thy  father  have  expressed  a  wish 
In  vain  ? 

Conn.     Here  is  the  lute. 

Thek.  My  God !  how  can  I— 

[The  orchestra  plays.  During  the  ritorneUo  THEKLA 
expresses  in  her  gestures  and  countenance  the 
struggle  of  her  feelings  :  and  at  the  moment  that 
she  should  begin  to  sing,  contracts  herself  together, 
as  one  shuddering,  throws  the  instrument  down, 
and  retires  abruptly. 

Duch.  My  child!     O  she  is  ill— 

Wai.  What  ails  the  maiden  ? 

Say,  is  she  often  so  ? 

Conn.  Since  then  herself 

Has  now  betrayed  it,  I  too  must  no  longer 
Conceal  it. 

Wai  What  ? 

Coun.  She  loves  him ! 

WaL  Loves  him!    Whom? 

Coun.  Max.  does  she  love !  Max.  Piccolomini. 
Hast  thou  ne'er  noticed  it  ?    Nor  yet  my  sister  ? 

Duch.  Was  it  this  that  lay  so  heavy  oil  her  heart  ? 
God's  blessing  on  thee,  my  sweet  child !     Thou  needest 
Never  take  shame  upon  thee  for  thy  choice. 

Coun.  This  journey,  if  'twere  not  thy  aim,  ascribe  it 
To  thine  own  self.    Thou  shonldest  have  chosen  another 
To  have  attended  her. 

Wai.  And  does  he  know  it  t 

Coun.  Yes,  and  he  hopes  to  win  her. 

Wai.  Hopes  to  win  her ! 

Is  the  boy  mad  ? 

Coun.  Well — hear  it  from  themselves. 

Wai.  He  thinks  to  carry  off  Duke  Friedland's  daughter! 
Ay  f — The  thought  pleases  me. 
The  young  man  has  no  grovelling  spirit. 

Coun.  Since 

Such  and  such  constant  favour  you  have  shown  him. 

Wai  He  chooses  finally  to  be  my  heir. 
And  true  it  is  I  love  the  youth  ;  yea,  honour  him. 
But  must  he  therefore  be  my  daughter's  husband  ? 
p 


362  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Is  it  daughters  only  ?    Is  it  only  children 
That  we  must  shew  our  favour  by  ? 

Duch.  His  noble  disposition  and  his  manners — 

Wai.  Win  him  my  heart,  but  not  my  daughter. 

Duch.  Then 

His  rank,  his  ancestors — 

Wai.  Ancestors!     What? 

He  is  a  subject,  and  my  son-in-law 
I  will  seek  out  upon  the  thrones  of  Europe. 

Duch.  O  dearest  Albrecht !    Climb  we  not  too  high, 
Lest  we  should  fall  too  low. 

Wai.  Wliat  ?  have  I  paid 

A  price  so  heavy  to  ascend  this  eminence, 
And  jut  out  high  above  the  common  herd, 
Only  to  close  the  mighty  part  I  play 
In  Life's  great  drama,  with  a  common  kinsman  ? 
Have  I  for  this —  [Stops  suddenly,  repressing  himself. 

She  is  the  only  thing 
That  will  remain  behind  of  me  on  earth  ; 
And  I  will  see  a  crown  around  her  head, 
Or  die  in  the  attempt  to  place  it  there. 
I  hazard  all— all!  and  for  this  alone, 
To  lift  her  into  greatness — 
Yea,  in  this  moment,  in  the  which  we  are  speaking — 

[He  recollects  himself. 

And  I  must  now,  like  a  soft-hearted  father, 
Couple  together  in  good  peasant  fashion 
The  pair,  that  chance  to  suit  each  other's  liking — 
And  I  must  do  it  now,  even  now,  when  I 
Am  stretching  out  the  wreath,  that  is  to  twine 
My  full  accomplished  work— no  !  she  is  the  jewel, 
Which  I  have  treasured  long,  my  last,  my  noblest, 
And  'tis  my  purpose  not  to  let  her  from  me 
For  less  than  a  king's  sceptre. 

Duch.  O  my  husband! 

You're  ever  building,  building  to  the  clouds, 
Still  building  higher,  and  still  higher  building, 
And  ne'er  reflect,  that  the  poor  narrow  basis 
Cannot  sustain  the  giddy  tottering  column. 

Wai.  (to  the  COUNTESS.)  Have  you  announced  the  place 

of  residence 
Which  I  have  destined  for  her  ? 

Conn.  No!  not  yet. 

'Twere  better,  you  yourself  disclosed  it  to  her. 

Duch.  How  ?    Do  we  not  return  to  Karn  then  ? 

Wai.  No. 

Duch.  And  to  no  other  of  your  lands  or  seats  T 

Wai.  You  would  not  be  secure  there. 

Duch.  Not  secure 

In  the  Emperor's  realms,  beneath  the  Emperor's 
Protection  ? 

Wai.  Friedland's  wife  may  be  permitted 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  363 

No  longer  to  hope  that.  * 

Duch.  O  God  in  heaven ! 

And  have  yon  brought  it  even  to  this  ? 

Wai.  In  Holland 

You'll  find  protection. 

Duck.  In  a  Lutheran  country? 

What  ?  And  you  send  us  into  Lutheran  countries  ? 

Wai.  Duke  Franz  of  Lauenberg  conducts  you  thither. 

Duck.  Duke  Franz  of  Lauenberg  ? 
The  ally  of  Sweden,  the  Emperor's  enemy. 

Wai.  The  Emperor's  enemies  are  mine  no  longer. 

Duch.  (casting  a  look  of  terror  on  the  DUKE  and  the  COUN- 
TESS.)   Is  it  then  true  ?    It  is.    You  are  degraded  ? 
Deposed  from  the  command  ?    O  God  in  heaven  ! 

Couu.  (aside  to  the  DUKE.)  Leave  her  in  this  belief.  Thou 

seest  she  cannot 
Support  the  real  truth. 

SCENE  V. — To  them  enter  COUNT  TERTSKY. 

Coun.  — Tertsky ! 

What  ails  him  ?    What  an  image  of  affright ! 
He  looks  as  he  had  seen  a  ghost. 

Ter.  (leading  WALLENSTEIN  aside.)  Is  it  thy  command 
that  all' the  Croats— 

Wai.  Mine ! 

Ter.  We  are  betrayed. 

Wai.  What? 

Ter.  They  are  off!    This  night 

The  Jagers  likewise — all  the  villages 
In  the  whole  round  are  empty. 

Wai.  Isolani  ? 

Ter.  Him  thou  hast  sent  away.    Yes.  surely. 

Wai.  I? 

Ter.  No !    Hast  thou  not  sent  him  off?    Nor  Deodate  ? 
They  are  vanished  both  of  them. 

SCENE  VI. — To  them  enter  ILLO. 

Illo.  Has  Tertsky  told  thee  ? 

Ter.  He  knows  all. 

lUo.  And  likewise 

That  Esterhatzy,  Goetz,  Maradas,  Kaunitz, 
Kolatto,  Palfi,  have  forsaken  thee. 

Ter.  Damnation! 

Wai.  (winks  at  them.)  Hush ! 

Coun.  (who  has  been  watching  them  anxiously  from  the  dis- 
tance, and  now  advances  to  them.)  Tertsky!  Heaven! 
What  is  it  ?  What  has  happened  ? 

Wai.  (scarcely  suppressing  his  emotion.)  Nothing!  Let  us 
be  gone! 

Ter.  (following  him.)  Theresa,  it  is  nothing. 


3C4  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Coun.  (holding  hi#n,  back.)  Nothing?    Do  I  not  see  that  all 

the  life  blood 

Has  left  your  checks — look  you  not  like  a  ghost  f 
That  even  my  brother  but  affects  a  calmness  ?      [Tertsky. 

Page,  (enters. )  An  Aide-de-Camp  inquires  for  the  Count 

[TERTSKY  follows  the  Page. 

Wai.  Go,  hear  his  business. 
(To  ILLO.)  This  could  not  have  happened 
So  unsuspected  without  mutiny. 
Who  was  on  guard  at  the  gates  ? 

Illo.  'Twas  Tiefenbach. 

Wai.  Let  Tiefenbach  leave  guard  without  delay, 
And  Tertsky's  grenadiers  relieve  him.  [!LLO  is  going. 

Stop! 
Hast  thou  heard  aught  of  Butler  ? 

Illo.  Him  I  met. 

He  will  be  here  himself  immediately. 
Butler  remains  unshaken, 

[ILLO  exit.    WALLENSTEIN  is  following  him. 

Conn.  Let  him  not  leave  thee,  sister!  go,  detain  him ! 
There's  some  misfortune. 

Duch.  (clinging  to  him.)  Gracious  heaven !    What  is  it  T 

Wai.  Be  tranquil!  leave  me,  sister!  dearest  wife! 
We  are  in  camp,  aud  this  is  nought  unusual; 
Here  storm  and  sunshine  follow  one  another 
With  rapid  interchanges.    These  fierce  spirits 
Champ  the  curb  angrily,  and  never  yet 
Did  quiet  bless  the  temples  of  the  leader. 
If  I  am  to  stay,  go  you.    The  plaints  of  women 
111  suit  the  scene  where  men  must  act. 

[He  is  going:  TERTSKY  returns. 

Ter.  Remain  here.    From  this  window  must  we  see  it. 

Wai.  (to  the  COUNTESS.)  Sister,  retire! 

Conn.  No — never. 

Wai.  'Tis  my  will ! 

Ter.  (leads  the  COUNTESS  aside,  and  drawing  her  attention  to 
the  DUCHESS.)  Theresa! 

Diich.  Sister,  come !  since  he  commands  it. 

SCENE  VII. — WALLENSTEIN,  TERTSKY. 

Wai.  (stepping  to  the  windoic.)  What  now,  then? 

Ter.  There  are  strange  movements  among  all  the  troops, 
And  no  one  knows  the  cause.    Mysteriously, 
With  gloomy  silentness,  the  several  corps 
Marshal  themselves,  each  under  its  own  banners. 
Tiefenbach's  corps  make  threatening  movements ;  only 
The  Pappenheimers  still  remain  aloof 
In  their  own  quarters,  and  let  no  one  enter. 

Wai.  Does  Piccolomini  appear  among  them  ? 

Ter.  We  are  seeking  him :  he  is  nowhere  to  be  met  with. 

Wai.  What  did  the  Aide-de-Camp  deliver  to  you  f 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  365 

Ter.  My  regiments  had  dispatched  him ;  yet  once  more 
They  swear  fidelity  to  thee,  and  wait 
The  shout  for  onset,  all  prepared,  and  eager. 

Wai.  But  whence  arose  this  larum  in  the  camp  ? 
It  should  have  been  kept  secret  from  the  army, 
Till  fortune  had  decided  for  us  at  Prague. 

Ter.  O  that  thou  hadst  believed  me!    Tester  evening 
Did  we  conjure  thee  not  to  let  that  skulker, 
That  fox,  Octavio,  pass  the  gates  of  Pilseu. 
Thou  gav'st  him  thy  own  horses  to  nee  from  thee. 

Wai.  The  old  tune  still!     Now,  once  for  all,  no  more 
Of  this  suspicion — it  is  doting  folly. 

Ter.  Thou  did'st  confide  in  Isolani  too  ; 
And  lo !  he  was  the  first  that  did  desert  theo. 

Wai.  It  was  but  yesterday  I  rescued  him 
From  abject  wretchedness.     Let  that  go  by. 
I  never  reckon'd  yet  on  gratitude. 
An  1  wherein  doth  he  wrong  in  going  from  me  ? 
He  follows  still  the  god  whom  all  his  life 
He  has  worshipped  at  the  gaming  table.    With 
My  FORTUNE,  and  my  seeming  destiny, 
He  made  the  bond,  and  broke  it  not  with  me. 
I  am  but.  the  ship  in  which  his  hopes  were  stowed, 
And  with  the  which  well-pleased  and  confident 
He  traversed  the  open  sea;   now  he  beholds  it 
In  eminent  jeopardy  among  the  coast-rocks, 
And  hurries  to  preserve  his  wares.    As  light 
As  the  free  bird  from  the  hospitable  twig 
Where  it  had  nested,  he  flies  off  from  me  : 
No  human  tie  is  snapped  betwixt  us  two. 
Yea,  he  deserves  to  find  himself  deceived, 
Who  seeks  a  heart  in  the  unthinking  man. 
Like  shadows  on  a  stream,  the  forms  of  life 
Impress  their  characters  on  the  smooth  forehead, 
Nought  sinks  into  the  bosom's  silent  depth : 
Quick  sensibility  of  pain  and  pleasure 
Moves  the  light  fluids  lightly ;  but  no  soul 
Warmeth  the  inner  frame. 

Ter.  Yet,  would  I  rather 

Trust  the  smooth  brow  than  that  deep  furrowed  one. 

SCENE  VIII. — WALLENSTEIN,  TERTSKY,  ILLO. 

IHo.  (who  enters  agitated  with  rage.)  Treason  and  mutiny! 
Ter.  And  what  further  now? 

lllo.  Tiefenbach's  soldiers,  when  I  gave  the  orders 
To  go  off  guard — Mutinous  villains ! 

Ter.  Well  ? 

Wai.  What  followed? 

IHo.  They  refused  obedience  to  them. 

Ter.  Fire  on  them  instantly!    Give  out  the  order. 

Wai.  Gently!     What  cause  did  they  assign  ? 


366  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

nio.  No  other 

They  said,  had  right  to  issue  orders  but 
Lieutenant-General  Ficcolomlni. 

Wai.  (in  a  convulsion  of  ayony.}  What  ?    How  is  that  ? 

Illo.  He  takes  that  office  on  him  by  commission, 
Under  sign-manual  of  the  Emperor. 

Ter.  From  the  Emperor — hear'st  thou,  Duke  ? 

Illo.  At  his  incitement 

The  Generals  made  that  stealthy  flight — 

Ter.  Duke !  hearest  thou  ? 

Illo.  Caraffa  too,  and  Montecuculi, 
Are  missing,  with  six  other  Generals, 
All  whom  he  had  induced  to  follow  him. 
This  plot  he  has  long  had  in  writing  by  him 
From  the  Emperor ;  but  'twas  finally  concluded 
With  all  the  detail  of  the  operation 
Some  days  ago  with  the  Envoy  Questenberg. 

[WALLENSTEIN  sinks  down  into  a  chair  and  covers  his  face. 

Ter.  O  hadst  thou  but  believed  me !      « 

SCENE  IX. — To  them  enter  the  COUNTESS. 

Coun.  This  suspense, 

This  horrid  fear — I  can  no  longer  bear  it. 
For  heaven's  sake,  tell  me,  what  has  taken  place. 

Illo.  The  regiments  are  all  falling  off  from  us. 

Ter.  Octavio  Piccolomini  is  a  traitor. 

Conn.  O  my  foreboding  !  [Rushes  out  of  the  room. 

Ter.  Hadst  thou  but  believed  me ! 

Now  seest  thou  how  the  stars  have  lied  to  thee. 

Wai.  The  stars  lie  not ;  but  we  have  a  work 
Wrought  counter  to  the  stars  and  destiny. 
The  science  is  still  honest:  this  false  heart 
Forces  a  lie  on  the  truth-telling  heaven. 
On  a  divine  law  divination  rests  ; 

Where  nature  deviates  from  that  law,  and  and  stumbles 
Out  of  her  limits,  there  all  science  errs. 
True,  I  did  not  suspect !    Were  it  superstition 
Never  by  such  suspicion  t'  have  affronted 
The  human  form,  O  may  that  time  ne'er  come 
In  which  I  shame  me  of  the  infirmity. 
The  wildest  savage  drinks  not  with  the  victim, 
Into  whose  breast  he  means  to  plunge  the  sword. 
This,  this,  Octavio,  was  no  hero's  deed  : 
'Twas  not  thy  prudence  that  did  conquer  mine ; 
A  bad  heart  triumphed  o'er  an  honest  one. 
No  shield  received  the  assassin  stroke ;  thou  pluugest 
Thy  weapon  on  an  unprotected  breast — 
Against  such  weapons  I  am  but  a  child. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  367 


SCENE  X. — To  these  enter  BUTLER. 

Ter>  (meeting  him.')    O  look  there  !     Butler!     Here  we've 
still  a  friend ! 

Wai .  ( meets  him  with  outspread  arms,  and  embraces  him  with 
warmth.)  Come  to  my  heart,  old  comrade  !    Not   the 
Looks  out  upon  us  more  revivingly  [sun. 

In  the  earliest  month  of  spring, 
Thau  a  friend's  countenance  in  such  an  hour. 

But.  My  General :  I  come —  [ready? 

Wai.  (leaning  on  BUTLER'S  shoulders.)  Know'st  thou  al- 
That  old  man  has  betrayed  me  to  the  Emperor. 
What  say'st  thou  ?    Thirty  years  have  we  together 
Lived  out,  and  held  out,  sharing  joy  and  hardship. 
We  have  slept  in  one  camp-bed,  drunk  from  one  glass, 
One  morsel  shared !     I  leaned  myself  on  him, 
As  now  I  lean  me  on  thy  faithful  shoulder. 
And  now  in  the  very  moment,  when,  all  love, 
All  confidence,  my  bosom  beat  to  his, 

He  sees  and  takes  the  advantage,  stabs  the  knife       [breast. 
Slowly  into  my  heart.        [He  hides  his  face  on  BUTLER'S 

Hut.  Forget  the  false  one. 

What  is  your  present  purpose  f 

Wai.  Well  remembered ! 

Courage,  my  soul !  I  am  still  rich  in  friends, 
Still  loved  by  Destiny ;  for  in  the  moment, 
That  it  unmasks  the  plotting  hypocrite, 
It  sends  and  proves  to  me  one  faithful  heart. 
Of  the  hyprocite  no  more!     Think  not,  his  loss 
Was  that  which  struck  the  pang  :  O  no !  his  treason 
Is  that  which  strikes  this  pang!     No  more  of  him  ! 
Dear  to  my  heart,  and  honoured  were  they  both, 
And  the  young  man — yes— he  did  truly  love  me, 
Ho— he -has  not  deceived  me.    But  enough, 
Enough  of  this — Swift  counsel  now  beseems  us. 
The  Courier,  whom  Count  Kinsky  sent  from  Prague, 
I  expect  him  every  moment :  and  whatever 
He  may  bring  with  him,  we  must  take  good  care 
To  keep  it  from  the  mutineers.     Quick,  then  ! 
Dispatch  some  messenger  you  can  rely  on 
To  meet  him,  and  conduct  him  to  me.  [!LLO  is  going. 

But.  (detaining  him.)  My  General,  whom  expect  you  then  f 

Wai.  The  Courier 

Who  brings  me  word  of  the  event  at  Prague. 

But.  (hesitating.)  Hem! 

Wai.  And  what  now  ? 

But.  You  do  not  know  it? 

Wai.  Well? 

But.  From  what  that  larum  in  the  camp  arose  ? 

Wai.  From  what  ? 

But.  That  Courier— 


*• 


368  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Wai.  (with  eager  expectation.)  Well? 

But.  Is  already  here. 

Ter.  and  Illo.  (at  the  same  time.}    Already  here  / 

Wai.  My  Courier? 

But.  For  some  hours. 

Wai.  And  I  not  know  it  ? 

But.  The  sentinels  detain  Mm 

In  custody. 

Illo.  (stamping  with  Iris  foot.)  Damnation! 

But.  And  his  letter 

Was  broken  open,  and  is  circulated 
Through  the  whole  camp. 

Wai.  You  know  what  it  contains  ? 

But.  Question  ine  not ! 

Ter.  Illo!   alas  for  us  ! 

7J 'al.  Hide  nothing  from  me — I  can  hear  the  worst. 
Prague  then  is  lost.     It  is.     Confess  it  freely. 

But.  Yes  !  Prague  is  lost.    And  all  the  several  regiments 
At  Budweiss,  Tabor,  Braimaii,  Konigingratz, 
At  Brim,  aud  Zuayin,  have  forsaken  you, 
And  ta'en  the  oaths  of  fealty  anew 
To  Ihe  Emperor.     Yourself,  with  Kiiisky,  Tertsky, 
And  Illo  have  been  sentenced. 

[TERTSKY  and  ILLO  express  alarm  and  fury.     WAL- 
LENSTEIN remains  firm  and  collected. 

Wai.  Tis  decided ! 

'Tis  well !  I  have  received  a  sudden  cure 
From  all  the  pangs  of  doubt:  with  steady  stream 
Once  more  my  lite-blood  flows!  My  soul's  secure  ! 
In  the  night  only  Friedlaud's  stars  can  beam. 
Lingering,  irresolute,  with  fitful  fears 
I  drew  the  sword — 'twas  with  an  inward  strife, 
While  yet  my  choice  was  mine.    The  murderous  knife 
Is  lifted  for  my  heart !    Doubt  disappears ! 
I  fight  now  for  my  head  and  for  my  life. 

[Exit  WALLENSTEIN  ;  the  others  follow  him. 

SCENE  XI. — COUNTESS  TERTSKY  (enters  from  a  side-room.) 

I  can  endure  no  longer.    No  !  [Looks  around  her. 

Where  are  they  1 

No  one  is  here.    They  leave  mo  all  alone, 
Alone  in  this  sore  anguish  of  suspense. 
And  I  must  wear  this  outward  show  of  calmness 
Before  my  sister,  and  shut  in  within  use 
The  pangs  and  agonies  of  my  crowded  bosom. 
It  is  not  to  be  borue.— If  all  should  fail ; 
If  -  if  ho  must  go  over  to  the  Swedes, 
An  empty-handed  fugitive,  and  not 
As  an  ally,  a  covenanted  equal, 
A  proud  commander  with  his  army  following; 
If  we  must  wander  on  from  land  to  land, 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  369 

Like  the  Count  Palatine,  of  fallen  greatness 
An  ignominious  monument — But  no! 
That  day  I  will  not  see  !    And  could  himself 
Endure  to  sink  so  low,  I  would  not  bear 
To  see  him  so  low  sunken. 

SCENE  XII. — COUNTESS,  DUCHESS,  THEKLA. 

TTiek.     (endeavouring  to  hold  lack  the  DUCHESS.)     Dear 
mother,  do  stay  here ! 

Duch.  No !    Here  is  yet 

Some  frightful  mystery  that  is  hidden  from  me. 
Why  does  my  sister  shun  me  f    Don't  I  see  her 
Full  of  suspense  and  anguish  roam  about 
From  room  to  room  ? — Art  thou  not  full  of  terror  I 
And  what  import  these  silent  nods  and  gestures 
Which  stealth  wise  thou  exchangest  with  her  ? 

Thek.  Nothing ; 

Nothing,  dear  mother! 

Duch.  (to  the  COUNTESS.)  Sister,  I  will  know. 

Coun.  What  boots  it  now  to  hide  it  from  her?     Sooner 
Or  later  she  must  learn  to  hear  and  bear  it. 
'Tis  not  the  time  now  to  indulge  infirmity, 
Courage  beseems  us  now,  a  heart  collect, 
And  exercise  and  previous  discipline 
Of  fortitude.     One  word,  and  over  with  it ! 
Sister  you  are  deluded.     You  believe, 
The  Duke  has  been  deposed — The  Duke  is  not 
Deposed — he  is [her  ? 

TJiek.  (going  to  Hie  COUNTESS.)  What!  do  you  wish  to  kill 

Coun.  the  Duke  is 

Thek.  (Throwing  her  arms  round  her  mother.}  O  stand  firm! 
stand  firm,  my  mother ! 

Coun.  Revolted  is  the  Duke,  he  is  preparing 
To  join  the  enemy,  the  army  leave  him, 
And  all  has  failed. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — A  spacious  Room  in  the  DUKE  OF  FRIEDLAND'S 
Palace. 

Wai.  (in  armour.)  Thou  has  gained  thy  point,  Octavio! 

Once  more  am  I 

Almost  as  friendless  as  at  Regenspurg. 
There  I  had  nothing  left  me,  but  myself — 
But  what  one  man  can  do,  you  have  now  experience. 
The  twigs  have  you  hewed  off,  and  here  I  stand 
A  leafless  trunk.     But  in  the  sap  within 
Lives  the  creating  power,  and  a  new  world. 
P* 


370  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

May  sprout  forth  from  it.    Once  already  have  I 

Proved  myself  worth  an  army  to  you — I  alone ! 

Before  the  Swedish  strength  your  troops  had  melted  ; 

Beside  the  Lech  sunk  Tilly,  your  last  hope ; 

Into  Bavaria,  like  a  winter  torrent, 

Did  that  Gustavus  pour,  and  at  Vienna 

In  his  own  palace  did  the  Emperor  tremble. 

Soldiers  were  scarce,  for  still  the  multitude 

Follow  the  luck :  all  eyea  were  turned  on  me, 

Their  helper  in  distress  :  the  Emperor's  pride 

Bowed  itself  down  before  the  man  he  had  injured. 

'Twas  I  must  rise,  and  with  creative  word 

Assemble  forces  in  the  desolate  camps. 

I  did  it.    Like  a  god  of  war,  my  name 

Went  through  the  world.    The  drum  was  beat — and,  lo ! 

The  plough,  the  work-shop,  is  forsaken,  all 

Swarm  to  the  old  familiar  long-loved  banners ; 

And  as  the  wood-choir  rich  in  melody 

Assemble  quick  around  the  bird  of  wonder, 

When  first  his  throat  swells  with  his  magic  song, 

So  did  the  warlike  youth  of  Germany 

Crowd  in  around  the  image  of  my  eagle. 

I  feel  myself  the  being  that  I  was. 

It  is  the  soul  that  builds  itself  a  body, 

And  Friedland's  camp  will  not  leinaiu  unfilled. 

Lead  then  your  thousands  out  to  meet  me— true! 

They  are  accustomed  under  me  to  conquer, 

But  not  against  me.     If  the  head  and  limbs 

Separate  from  each  other,  'twill  be  soon 

Made  manifest,  in  which  the  soul  abode. 

ILLO  and  TERTSKY  enter. 

Courage,  friends !  Courage !  We  are  still  unvanquished ; 
I  feel  my  footing  firm  ;  five  regiments,  Tertsky, 
Are  still  our  own,  and  Butler's  gallant  troops;* 
And  an  host  of  sixteen  thousand  Swedes  to-morrow. 
I  was  not  stronger,  when  nine  years  ago 
I  marched  forth,  with  glad  heart  and  high  of  hope, 
To  conquer  Germany  for  the  Emperor. 

SCENE  II.— WALLENSTKIN,  ILLO,  TERTSKY.    (To  them  enter 
NEUMANN,  who  leads  TERTSKY  aside,  and  talks  with  him. 

Ter.  What  do  they  want  ? 

Wai.  What  now  t 

Ter.  Ten  Cuirassiers 

From  Pappenheim  request  leave  to  address  you 
In  the  name  of  the  regiment.  [MANN. 

Wai.  (Hastily  to  NEUMANN.)  Let  them  enter.  [£x<7 

This 

May  end  in  something.    Mark  you.    They  are  still 
Doubtful,  and  may  be  won. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  371 


SCENE  III. — WALLENSTEIN,  TERTSKY,  ILLO.  Ten  Cuiras- 
siers (led  ly  an  Anspessade, * )  march  up  and  arrange 
themselves,  after  the  word  of  command,  in  one  front  before 
the  DUKE,  and  make  their  obeisance.  He  takes  his  hat  off, 
and  immediately  covers  himself  again. 

Ans.  Halt!  Front!  Present! 

Wai.  (after  he  has  run  through  them  with  his  eye,  to  the  An- 
spessade.) I  know  thee  well.  Thou  art  out  of  Briiggin  in 
Thy  name  is  Mercy.  [Flanders: 

Ans.  Henry  Mercy. 

Wai.  Thou  wert  cut  off  on  the  march,  surrounded  by  the 
Hessians,  and  didst  fight  thy  way  with  an  hundred  and 
eighty  men  through  their  thousand. 

Ans.  'Twas  even  so,  General ! 

Wai.  What  reward  hadst  thou  for  this  gallant  exploit  I 

Ans.  That  which  I  asked  for :  the  honour  to  serve  in  this 
corps. 

Wai.  (turning  to  a  second.)  Thou  wert  among  the  volun- 
teers that  seized  and  made  booty  of  the  Swedish  battery  at 
Alteuburg. 

2nd  Cui.  Yes,  General ! 

Wai.  I  forget  no  one  with  whom  I  have  exchanged  words. 
(A  pa  use.)  W  ho  sen  d  s  y  o  u  ? 

Ans.  Your  noble  regiment,  the  Cuirassiers  of  Piccolomini. 

Wai.  Why  does  nofc  your  colonel  deliver  in  your  request, 
according  to  the  custom  of  service? 

Ans.  Because  we  would  first  know  whom  we  serve. 

Wai.  Begin  your  address. 

Ans.  (giving  the  word  of  command.}  Shoulder  your  arms! 

Wai.  (turning  to  a  third.)  Thy  name  is  Risbeck,  Cologne 
is  thy  birth-place. 

3rd  Cui.  Kisbeck  of  Cologne. 

Wai.  It  was  thou  that  bronghtest  in  the  Swedish  col- 
onel, Diebald,  prisoner,  in  the  camp  at  Nuremburg. 

3rd  Cui.  It  was  not  I,  General ! 

Wai.  Perfectly  right!  It  was  thy  elder  brother :  thou 
hadst  a  younger  brother  too :  where  did  he  stay  ?  [army. 

3rd  Cui.  He  is  stationed  at    Olmutz  with  the  Imperial 

Wai.  (to  the  Anspessade.)  Now  then  begin. 

Ans.  There  came  to  hand  a  letter  from  the  Emperor 
Commanding  us 

Wai.  (interrupting  him.)  Who  chose  you? 

Ans.  Every  company 

Drew  its  own  man  by  lot. 

Wai.  Now  1  to  the  business. 

Ans.  There  came  to  hand  a  letter  from  the  Emperor 
Commanding  us  collectively,  from  thee 

*  Anspessade,  in  German,  Gefreiter,  a  soldier  inferior  to  a  cor- 
poral, but  above  the  sentinels.  The  German  name  implies  that  he 
is  exempt  from  mounting  guard. 


372  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

All  duties  of  obedience  to  withdraw, 
Because  thon  wert  an  enemy  and  traitor. 

Wai.  And  what  did  you  determine  f 

Arts.  All  our  comrades 

At  Bruannau,  Budweiss,  Prague  and  Olmutz,  have 
Obeyed  already,  and  the  regiments  here, 
Tiefenbach  and  Toscano,  instantly 
Did  follow  their  example.    But — but  we 
Do  not  believe  that  thou  art  an  enemy 
And  traitor  to  thy  country,  hold  it  merely  [warmth. 

For  lie  and  trick,  and  a  trumped-up  Spanish  story !    [  With 
Thyself  shalt  tell  us  what  thy  purpose  is, 
For  we  have  found  thee  still  sincere  and  true : 
No  mouth  shall  interpose  itself  betwixt 
The  gallant  General  and  the  gallant  troops. 

Wai.  Therein  I  recognize  my  PappenheinK  rs. 

Am.  And  this  proposal  makes  thy  regiment  to  thte : 
Is  it  thy  purpose  merely  to  preserve 
In  thy  own  hands  this  military  sceptre, 
Which  so  becomes  thee,  which  the  Emperor 
Made  over  to  thee  by  a  covenant ; 
Is  it  thy  purpose  merely  to  remain 
iSupreme  commander  of  the  Austrian  armies ; 
We  will  stand  by  thee,  General!  and  guarantee 
Thy  honest  rights  against  all  opposition. 
And  should  it  chance,  that  all  the  other  regiments 
Turn  from  thee,  by  ourselves  will  we  stand  forth 
Thy  faithful  soldiers,  and,  as  is  our  duty, 
Far  rather  let  ourselves  be  cut  to  pieces, 
Than  suffer  thee  to  fall.    But  if  it  be 
As  the  Emperor's  letter  says,  if  it  be  true. 
That  thou  in  traitorous  wise  wilt  lead  us  over 
To  the  enemy,  which  God  in  Heaven  forbid! 
Then  we  too  will  forsake  thee,  and  obey 
That  letter 

Wai.  Hear  me,  children ! 

Am.  Yes,  or  no! 

There  needs  no  other  answer. 

Wai.  Yield  attention. 

You're  men  of  sense,  examine  for  yourselves; 
Ye  think,  and  do  not  follow  with  the  herd  ; 
And  therefore  have  I  always  shewn  you  honour 
Above  all  others,  suffered  you  to  reason  ; 
Have  treated  you  as  free  men,  and  my  orders 
Were  but  the  echoes  of  your  prior  suffrage. — 

Ans.  Most  fair  and  noble  has  thy  conduct  been 
To  us,  my  General !    With  thy  confidence 
Thou  hast  honoured  us,  and  shewn  us  grace  and  favour 
Beyond  all  other  regiments  ;  and  thou  see'st 
We  follow  not  the  common  herd.    We  will 
Stand  by  thee  faithfully.     Speak  but  one  word — 
Thy  word  shall  satisfy  us,  that  it  is  not 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  373 

A  treason  which  thou  meditatest — that 
Thou  meanest  not  to  lead  the  army  over 
To  the  enemy ;  nor  e'er  betray  thy  country. 

Wai.    Me,  me,  are  they  betraying.    The  Emperor 
Hath  sacrificed  me  to  my  enemies, 
And  I  must  fall,  unless  my  gallant  troops 
Will  rescue  me.     See !  I  confide  in  you. 
And  be  your  hearts  my  strong  hold  I    At  this  breast 
The  aim  is  taken,  at  this  hoary  head. 
This  is  your  Spanish  gratitude,  this  is  our 
Requital  for  that  murderous  fight  at  Lutzen ! 
For  this  we  threw  the  naked  breast  against 
The  halbert,  made  for  this  the  frozen  earth 
Our  bed,  and  the  hard  stone  our  pillow!  never  stream 
Too  rapid  for  us,  nor  wood  too  impervious ; 
"\Vith  cheerful  spirit  we  pursued  that  Mansfield 
Through  all  the  turns  and  windings  of  his  flight ; 
Yea,  our  whole  life  was  but  one  restless  march ; 
And  homeless,  as  the  stirring  wind,  wo  travelled 
O'er  tho  war-wasted  earth.     And  now,  even  now, 
That  we  have  well  nigh  finished  the  hard  toil, 
The  unthankful,  the  curse-laden  toil  of  weapons, 
With  faithful  indefatigable  arm 
Have  rolled  the  heavy  war-load  up  the  hill, 
Behold!  this  boy  of  the  Emperor's  bears  away 
The  honours  of  the  peace,  an  easy  prize ! 
He'll  weave,  forsooth,  into  his  flaxen  locks 
The  olive  branch,  the  hard-earn'd  ornament 
Of  this  grey  head,  grown  grey  beneath  the  helmet. 

Ans.  That  shall  he  not,  while  we  can  hinder  it ! 
No  one,  but  thou,  who  hast  conducted  it 
With  fame,  shall  end  this  war,  this  frightful  war. 
Thou  led'st  ns  out  into  the  bloody  field 
Of  death,  thou  and  no  other  shalt  conduct  us  home, 
Rejoicing  to  the  lovely  plains  of  peace — 
Shalt  share  with  us  the  fruits  of  the  long  toil — 

Wai.    What  ?    Think  you  then  at  length  in  late  old  age 
To  enjoy  the  fruits  of  toil  ?    Believe  it  not. 
Never,  no  never,  will  you  see  the  end 
Of  tho  contest!  you  and  me,  and  all  of  us, 
This  war  will  swallow  up!     War,  war,  not  peace, 
Is  Austria's  wish ;  and  therefore,  because  I 
Endeavoured  after  peace,  therefore  I  fall. 
For  what  cares  Austria,  how  long  the  war 
Wears  out  the  armies  and  lays  waste  the  world  ? 
She  will  but  wax  and  grow  amid  the  ruin, 
And  still  win  new  domains. 

[The  Cuirassiers  express  agitation  ~by  their  gestures. 

Ye're  moved — I  see 

A  noble  rage  flash  from  your  eyes,  ye  warriors ! 
Oh  that  my  spirit  might  possess  you  now 
Daring  as  once  i  t  led  you  to  the  battle ! 


374  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye  would  stand  by  me  with  your  veteran  arms, 

Protect  me  in  my  rights ;  and  this  is  noble  ! 

But  think  not  that  you  can  accomplish  it, 

Your  scanty  number !  to  no  purpose  will  you 

Have  sacrificed  you  for  your  General. 

No !  let  us  tread  securely,  seek  for  friends ;  [  Confidentially. 

The  Swedes  have  proffered  us  assistance,  let  us 

Wear  for  a  while  the  appearance  of  good  will, 

And  use  them  for  your  profit,  till  we  both 

Carry  the  fate  of  Europe  in  our  hands, 

And  from  our  camp  to  the  glad  jubilant  world 

Lead  Peace  forth  with  the  garland  on  her  head ! 

Am.  'Tis  then  but  mere  appearances  which  tbou 
Dost  put  on  with  the  Swede  f    Thou'lt  not  betray 
The  Emperor  ?    Wilt  not  turn  us  into  Swedes  f 
This  is  the  only  thing  which  we  desire 
To  learn  from  thee. 

Wai  What  care  I  for  the  Swedes  f 

I  hate  them  as  I  hate  the  pit  of  hell, 
And  under  Providence  I  trust  right  soon 
To  chase  them  to  their  homes  across  their  Baltic. 
My  cares  are  only  for  the  whole :  I  have 
A  heart — it  bleeds  within  me  for  the  miseries 
And  piteous  groaning  of  my  fellow  Germans. 
Ye  are  but  common  men,  but  yet  ye  think 
With  minds  not  common ;  ye  appear  to  me 
Worthy  before  all  others,  that  I  whisper  ye 
A  little  word  or  two  in  confidence! 
See  now  1  already  for  full  fifteen  years 
The  war-torch  has  continued  burning,  yet 
No  rest,  no  pause  of  conflict.     Swede  and  German 
Papist  and  Lutheran!  neither  will  give  way 
To  the  other,  every  hand's  against  the  other. 
Each  one  is  party  and  no  one  a  judge. 
Where  shall  this  end  ?    Where's  he  that  will  unravel 
This  tangle,  ever  tangling  more  and  more. 
It  must  be  cut  asunder. 
I  feel  that  I  am  the  man  of  destiny, 
And  trust,  with  your  assistance  to  accomplish  it. 

SCENE  IV. — To  these  enter  BUTLER. 

But.  (passionately.)  General!    This  is  not  right' 

Wai.  What  is  not  righ t  ? 

But.  It  must  needs  injure  us  with  all  honest  men. 

Wai.  But  what? 

But.  It  is  an  open  proclamation 

Of  insurrection. 

Wai.  Well,  well-but  what  is  it  T 

But.  Count  Tertsky's  regiments  tear  the  Imperial  Eagle 
From  off  the  banners,  and  instead  of  it, 
Have  reared  aloft  thy  arms. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  375 

Ana.  (abruptly  to  the  Cuirassiers.)  Right  about!  March! 

Wai.  Cursed  be  this  counsel,  and  accursed  who  gave  it! 
[To  the  Cuirassiers,  who  are  retiring. 
Halt,  children,  halt !    There's  some  mistake  in  this ; 
Hark !— I  will  punish  it  severely.     Stop ! 
They  do  not  hear,     (to  ILLO.)  Go  after  them,  assure  them, 
And  bring  them  backto  me,  cost  what  it  may.  [ILLO  hurries 
This  hurls  us  headlong.    Butler!  Butler!  lout. 

You  are  my  evil  genius,  wherefore  must  you 
Announce  it  in  their  presence?    It  was  all 
In  a  fair  way.    They  were  half  won,  those  madmen 
\Vith  their  improvident  over-readiness — 
A  cruel  game  is  Fortune  playing  with  me. 
The  zeal  of  friends  it  is  that  razes  me, 
And  not  the  hate  of  enemies. 

SCENE  V. — To  these  enter  the  DUCHESS,  who  rushes  into  the 
Chamber.    THEKLA  and  the  COUNTESS  follow  her. 

Duch.  O  Albrccht ! 

What  hast  tbou  done  ? 

Wai.  And  now  comes  this  beside, 

Coun.  Forgive  me,  brother !     It  was  not  in  my  power. 
They  know  all. 

Duch.  What  hast  thou  clone  ? 

Coun.  (to  TERTSKY.)  Is  there  no  hope  ?  Is  all  lost  utterly? 

Ter.  All  lost.     No  hope.     Prague  in  the  Emperor's  hands, 
The  soldiery  have  ta'en  their  oaths  anew. 

Coun.  That  lurking  hypocrite,  Octavio  !  m 

Count  Max.  is  off  too  ? 

Ter.  Where  can  he  be  ?    He's 

Gone  over  to  the  Emperor  with  his  father. 

[THEKLA  rushes  out  into  the  arms  of  her  mother,  hiding 
her  face  in  her  bosom. 

Duch.  (enfolding  her  in  her  arms.)    Unhappy  child !  and 
more  unhappy  mother !  [readiness 

Wai.  (as  ide  to  TERTSKY.)  Quick!  Let  a  carriage  stand  in 
In  the  court  behind  the  palace.    Scherfenberg 
Be  their  attendant;  he  is  faithful  to  us  ; 
To  Egra  he'll  conduct  them,  and  we  follow. 
Thou  hast  not  brought  them  backf      [  To  ILLO  who  returns. 

Illo.  Hear'st  thou  the  uproar  ? 

The  whole  corps  of  the  Pappenheimers  is 
Drawn  out:  the  younger  Piccolomini, 
Their  colonel,  they  require ;  for  they  affirm, 
That  he  js  in  the  palace  here,  a  prisoner; 
And  if  thou  dost  not  instantly  deliver  him,  [amazed. 

They  will  find  means  to  free  him  with  the  sword.  [  All  stand 

Ter.  What  shall  we  make  of  this  ? 

Wai.  Said  I  not  so  ? 

O  my  prophetic  heart!  he  is  still  here. 
He  has  not  betrayed  me— he  could  not  betray  me. 


376  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

I  never  doubted  of  it. 

Coun.  If  he  be 

Still  here,  then  all  goes  well ;  for  I  know  what 

[Embracing  THEKLA. 
Will  keep  him  here  for  ever. 

Ter.  It  can't  be. 

His  father  has  betrayed  us,  is  gone  over 
To  the  Emperor— the  son  could  not  have  ventured 
To  stay  behind. 

Thek.  (her  eyejixed  on  the  door.}  There  he  is! 

SCENE  VI. — To  these  enter  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

Max.  Yes !  here  he  is !    I  can  endure  no  longer 
To  creep  on  tiptoe  round  this  house,  and  lurk 
In  ambush  for  a  favourable  moment. 
This  loitering,  this  suspense  exceeds  my  powers. 

[Advancing  to  THEKLA,  who  has  thrown  herself  into  her 

mother's  arms. 

Turn  not  thine  eyes  away.    O  look  upon  me! 
Confess  it  freely  before  all.    Fear  no  one. 
Let  who  will  hear  that  wo  both  love  each  other. 
Wherefore  continue  to  conceal  it  f    Secrecy 
Is  for  the  happy — misery,  hopeless  misery, 
Needeth  no  veil !    Beneath  a  thousand  suns 
It  dares  act  openly. 

[He  observes  the  COUNTESS  looking  on  THEKLA  with  ex- 
pressions of  triumph. 

No,  Lady!  No! 

Expect  not,  hope  it  not.    I  am  not  come 
To  stay:  to  bid  farewell,  farewell  for  ever, 
For  this  I  come !    'Tis  over !    I  must  leave  thee ! 
Thekla,  I  must — must  leave  thee  I    Yet  thy  hatred 
Let  me  not  take  with  me.    I  pray  thee,  grant  me 
One  look  of  sympathy,  only  one  look. 
Say  that  thou  dost  not  hate  me.    Say  it  to  me,  Thekla ! 

[Grasps  her  hand. 

0  God !  I  cannot  leave  this  spot — I  cannot! 
Cannot  let  go  this  hand.     O  tell  me,  Thekla  ! 
That  thou  dost  suffer  with  me,  art  convinced 
That  I  cannot  act  otherwise. 

[THEKLA,  avoiding  his  look,  points  with  her  hand  to  her 
father.    MAX.  turns  round  to  the  DUKE,  whom  he  had 
not  till  then  perceived. 
Thou  here  ?  It  was  not  thou,  whom  here  I  sought. 

1  trusted  never  more  to  have  beheld  thee.  . 
My  business  is  with  her  alone.     Hero  will  I 
Receive  a  full  acquittal  from  this  heart — 

For  any  other  I  am  no  more  concerned. 

Wai.  Think'st  thou,  that  fool-like,  I  shall  let  thoe  go, 
And  act  the  mock-magnanimous  with  theo  f 
Thy  father  is  become  a  villain  to  me; 


•H* 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


377 


I  hold  thee  for  his  son,  and  nothing  more; 
Nor  to  no  purpose  shalt  thou  have  been  given 
Into  my  power.    Think  not,  that  I  will  honour 
That  ancient  love,  which  so  remorselessly 
Ho  mangled.    They  are  now  past  by,  those  hours 
Of  friendship  and  forgiveness.    Hate  and  vengeance 
Succeed — 'tis  now  their  turn — I  too  can  throw 
All  feelings  of  the  man  aside — can  prove 
Myself  as  much  a  monster  as  thy  father !  [power. 

Max.  (calmly.)  Thou  wilt  proceed  with  me,  as  thou  hast 
Thou  know'st,  I  neither  brave  nor  fear  thy  rage. 
What  has  detained  me  here,  that  too  thou  know'st. 

[Taking  THEKLA  ly  the  hand. 
See,  Dufcc !    All — all  would  I  have  owed  to  thee, 
Would  have  received  from  thy  paternal  hand 
The  lot  of  blessed  spirits.     This  hast  thou 
Laid  waste  for  ever — that  concerns  not  thee. 
Indifferent  thou  tramplest  in  the  dust 
Their  happiness,  who  most  are  thine.    The  god 
Whom  thou  dost  serve,  is  no  benignant  deity. 
Like  as  the  blind  irreconcileablo 
Fierce  element,  incapable  of  compact, 
Thy  heart's  wild  impulse  only  dost  thou  follow.* 

*  1  have  here  ventured  to  omit  a  considerable  number  of  lines.  I 
fear  that  I  should  not  have  done  amiss,  had  I  taken  this  liberty  more 
frequently.  It  is,  however,  incumbent  on  me  to  give  the  original 
with  a  literal  translation. 

Weh  denen  die  auf  dich  Vertraun,  an  Dich 
Die  sichre  Hutte  ihres  Gluckes  lehnen, 
Gelockt  von  deiner  gastlichen  Gestalt. 
Schnell  unver  hofft,  by  nachtlich  stiller  Weile 
Gahrts  in  dem  tiickschen  Feuerschlunde,  ladet 
Sich  aus  mit  tobender  Gervalt,  und  we? 
Treibt  iiber  alle  Pflanzunger  der  Menschen 
Der  wilde  Strom  in  grausender  zerstohrung. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Du  schilderst  deines  Vaters  Herz.    Wie  Du's 
Beschreibst,  so  ists  in  seinem  Eingeweide, 
In  dieser  schwarzen  Heuchlers  Brust  gestaltet. 
O  mich  hat  Hollenkunst  getauscht.    Mir  Sandte. 
Der  Abgrund  den  verflecktesten  der  Geister, 
Den  Liigekundigsten  herauf,  und  stellt'  ihn 
Als  Freund  an  meine  Seite.     Wer  vermag 
Der  Holle  Machtzu  widerstehn!  Ich  zog 
Den  Basilisken  auf  an  meinem  Busen, 
Mit  meinem  Herzblut  nahrt  ich  ihn,  er  sog 
Sich  schwelgend  voll  an  meiner  Liebe  Briisten, 
Ich  hatte  nimmer  Arges  gegen  ihn, 
Weit  offen  liefs  ich  des  Oedankeus  Thore, 
Und  warft  die  Schussel  weiser  Vorsicht  weg, 
Am  Sternenhimmel,  &c. 

LITERAL  TRANSLATION. 

Alas!  for  those  who  place  their  confidence  on  thee,  against  thee 
lean  the  secure  hut  of  their  fortune,  allured  by  thy  hospitable  form. 
Suddenly,  unexpectedly,  in  a  moment  still  as  night,  there  is  a  fer- 


378  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Wai.  Thou  art  describing  thy  own  father's  heart. 
The  adder!  O,  the  charms  of  hell  o'erpowered  me. 
lie  dwelt  within  me,  to  my  inmost  soul 
Still  to  and  fro  he  passed,  suspected  never! 
On  the  wide  ocean,  in  the  starry  heaven 
Did  mine  eyes  seek  the  enemy,  whom  I 
In  my  heart's  heart  had  folded  !  Had  I  been 
To  Ferdinand  what  Octavio  was  to  me, 
"War  had  I  ne'er  denounced  against  him.    No, 
I  never  could  have  done  it.    The  Emperor  was 
My  austere  master  only,  not  my  friend. 
There  was  already  war  ;twixt  him  and  me 
When  he  delivered  the  Commander's  Staff 
Into  my  hands ;  for  there's  a  natural 
Unceasing  war  'twixt  cunning  and  suspicion ; 
Peace  exists  only  betwixt  confidence 
And  faith.    Who  poisons  confidence,  he  murders 
The  future  generations. 

Max.  I  will  not 

Defend  my  father.    Woe  is  me,  I  cannot! 
Hard  deeds  and  luckless  have  ta'en  place,  one  crime 
Drags  after  it  the  other  in  close  link. 
But  we  are  innocent;  how  have  we  fallen 
Into  this  circle  of  mishap  and  guilt? 
To  whom  have  wo  been  faithless  ?  Wherefore  must 
The  evil  deeds  and  guilt  reciprocal 
Of  our  two  fathers  twine  like  serpents  round  us  f 
Why  must  our  fathers' 
Unconquerable  hate  rend  us  asunder, 
Who  love  each  other  ? 

Wai.  Max .  remain  with  me. 

Go  you  not  from  me,  Max. !  Hark !  I  will  tell  thoe — 
How  when  at  Prague,  our  winter  quarters,  thou 
Wert  brought  into  my  tent  a  tender  boy, 
Not  yet  accustomed  to  the  German  winters  ; 
Thy  hand  was  frozen  to  tlio  heavy  colours  ; 
Thou  would'st  not  let  them  go — 
At  (hat  time  did  I  take  theei  i  my  arms, 
And  with  my  mantlo  did  I  cover  theo; 
I  was  thy  nurse,  no  woman  could  have  been 
A  kinder  to  thee;  I  was  not  ashamed 

mentation  in  the  treacherous  gulf  of  fire;  it  discharges  itsrlf  with 
raging  force,  and  away  over  all  the  plantations  of  men  drives  the 
wild  stream  in  frightful  devastation.  WALLENSTEIN.  Thou  art  por- 
traying thy  father's  heart,  as  thou  depcribest,  even  so  is  it  shaped  in 
his  entrails,  in  this  black  hypocrite's  breast.  O,  tlie  art  of  hell  has 
deceived  me?  The  Abyss  sent  up  to  me  the  most  spotted  of  the 
spirits,  the  most  skilful  in  lies,  and  placed  him  as  a  friend  at  my 
side.  Who  may  withstand  the  p-»wer  of  hell  ?  I  took  the  basilisk  to 
my  bosom,  with  my  heart's,  blood  I  nourished  him;  he  sucked  himself 
glut-full  at  the  breasts  of  my  love.  I  never  harboured  evil  towards 
him :  wide  open  did  I  leave  the  door  of  my  thoughts;  I  threw  away 
the  koy  of  wise  foresight.  In  the  starry  heaven,  Ac.  -We  find  a 
difficulty  in  believing  this  to  have  been  written  by  SCHILLER, 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  379 

To  do  for  tbee  all  little  offices, 

However  strange  to  me  ;  I  tended  thee 

Till  life  returned;  and  when  thine  eyes  first  opened, 

I  had  thee  in  my  arms.    Since  then,  when  have  I 

Altered  my  feelings  towards  thee  ?    Many  thousands 

Have  I  made  rich,  presented  them  with  lands ; 

Rewarded  them  with  dignities  and  honours  ; 

Thee  have  I  loved :  my  heart,  my  self,  I  gave 

To  thee !    They  all  were  aliens,  THOU  wert 

Our  child  and  inmate.*  Max. !  Thou  canst  not  leave  mo ; 

It  cannot  be ;   I  may  not,  will  not  think 

That  Max.  can  leave  me. 

Max.  O  my  Goo^ ! 

Wai.  I  have 

Held  and  sustained  thee  from  thy  tottering  childhood. 
What  holy  bond  is  there  of  natural  love? 
What  human  tie,  that  does  not  knit  theo  to  me  ? 
I  love  thee,  Max  !  What  did  thy  father  for  thee, 
Which  I  too  have  not  done,  to  the  height  of  duty  ? 
Go  hence,  forsake  me,  serve  thy  Emperor; 
He  will  reward  thee  with  a  pretty  chain 
Of  gold ;  with  his  ram's  fleece  will  he  reward  thee  ; 
For  that  the  friend,  the  father  of  thy  youth, 
For  that  the  holiest  feeling  of  humanity, 
Was  nothing  worth  to  thee. 

Max.  O  God !  How  can  I 

Do  otherwise  ?  Am  I  not  forced  to  do  it  ? 
My  oath— my  duty — honour — 

Wai.  How  ?  Thy  duty  ? 

Duty  to  whom  ?  Who  art  thou  ?  Max. !  bethink  thee 
What  duties  may'st  thou,  have  ?  If  I  am  acting 
A  criminal  part  toward  the  Emperor, 
It  is  my  crime,  not  thine.    Dost  thou  belong 
To  thine  own  self  ?    Art  thou  thine  own  commander  f 
Stand'st  thou,  like  me,  a  freeman  in  the  world, 
That  in  thy  actions  thou  should'st  plead  free  agency  I 
On  me  thou'rt  planted,  I  am  thy  Emperor; 
To  obey  me,  to  belong  to  me,  this  is 
Thy  honour,  this  a  law  of  nature  to  thee ! 
And  if  the  planet,  on  the  which  thou  liv'st 
And  hast  thy  dwelling,  from  its  orbit  starts> 
It  is  not  in  thy  choice,  whether  or  no 
Thou'lt  follow  it.    Unfelt  it  whirls  thee  onward 
Together  with  his  ring  and  all  his  moons. 
With  little  guilt  stepp'st  thou  into  this  contest, 
Thee  will  the  world  not  censure,  it  will  praise  thee, 

*  This  is  a  poor  and  inadequate  translation  of  the  affectionate 
simplicity  of  the  original — 

Sie  alle  waren  Fremdlinge,  Du  warst 
Das  kind  des  Hauses. 

Indeed  the  whole  speech  is  in  the  best  style  of  Massinger.    O  si 
sic  omnia  I 


380  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

For  that  them  heldst  thy  friend  more  worth  to  thee 

Than  names  and  influences  more  removed. 

For  justice  is  the  virtue  of  the  ruler, 

Affection  and  fidelity  the  subject's. 

Not  every  one  doth  it  beseem  to  question 

The  far-off  high  Arcturus.    Most  securely 

Wilt  thou  pursue  the  nearest  duty — let 

The  pilot  fix  his  eye  upon  the  pole-star. 

SCENE  VII. — To  these  enter  NEUMANN. 

Wai  What  now  ? 

Neu.  The  Pappenheimers  are  dismounted, 

And  are  advancing  now  on  foot,  determined 
With  sword  in  hand  to  storm  the  house,  and  free 
The  Count,  their  Colonel. 

H'al.  (toTKRSTKY.)          Have  the  cannon  planted. 
I  will  receive  them  with  chain-shot.  [Exit  TKKTSKY. 

Pi-escribe  to  me  \vith  sword  in  hand  !  Go,  Neumann ! 
'Tis  my  command  that  they  retreat  this  moment, 
And  in  their  ranks  in  silence  wait  rny  pleasure. 

[NEUMANN  exit.    ILLO  step*  to  the  window. 

Coun.  Let  him  go,  I  entreat  thee,  let  him  go. 

Illo.  (at  the  window.)  Hell  and  perdition ! 

Wai  What  is  it! 

Illo.  They  scale  the  council-house,  the  roof's  uncovered. 
They  level  at  this  house  the  cannon 

Max.  Madmen ! 

Illo..  They  are  making  preparations  no\v  to  lire  on,  us. 

Duch.  and  Coun.  Merciful  Heaven  ! 

Max.  (to  WALLENSTEIN.)  Let  me  go  to  them! 

Wai  Not  a  step ! 

Max.  (pointing  to  THEKLA  and  the  DUCHESS.)    But  their 
life!  'Thine! 

Wai.  AVhat  tidings  bring'st  thou,  Tertsky ! 

SCENE  VIII. — To  theae  TERTSKY  (returning). 

Tcrl  Message  and  greeting  from  onr  faithful  regiments. 
Their  ardour  may  no  longer  bo  curbed  in. 
They  intreat  permission  to  commence  the  attack, 
And  if  thou  would'st  but  give  the  word  of  onset, 
They  could  now  charge  the  enemy  in  rear, 
Into  the  city  wedge  them,  and  with  ease 
O'erpower  them  in  the  narrow  streets. 

Illo.  O  come ! 

Let  not  their  ardour  cool.    The  soldiery 
Of  Butler's  corps  stand  by  us  faithfully ; 
WTe  are  the  greater  number.    Let  us  charge  them, 
And  finish  here  in  Pilseii  the  revolt. 

Wai  What?  shall  this  town  become  a  field  of  slaughter, 
And  brother-killing  Discord,  fire-eyed, 

•* 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  381 

Be  let  loose  through  its  streets  to  roam  and  rage  ? 

Shall  the  decision  be  delivered  over 

To  deaf  remorseless  Rage,  that  hears  no  leader? 

Here  is  not  room  for  battle,  only  for  butchery. 

Well,  let  it  be !    I  have  long  thought  of  it, 

So  let  it  burst  then !  [  Turns  to  MAX. 

Well,  how  is  it  with  thee  ? 
Wilt  thou  attempt  a  heat  with  me.    Away! 
Thou  art  free  to  go.    Oppose  thyself  to  me, 
Front  against  front,  and  lead  them  to  the  battle  ;         [me, 
Thou'rt  skilPd  in  war,  thou  hast  learned  somewhat  under 
I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  thy  opponent, 
And  never  hadst  thou  fairer  opportunity 
To  pay  me  for  thy  schooling. 

Conn.  Is  it  then, 

Can  it  have  come  to  this  ? — What!  Cousin,  Cousin 
Have  you  the  heart  ? 

Max.  The  regiments  that  are  trusted  to  my  care 
I  have  pledged  my  troth  to  bring  away  from  Pilsen 
True  to  the  Emperor,  and  this  promise  will  I 
Make  good,  or  perish.    More  than  this  no  duty 
Requires  of  me.     I  will  not  fight  aginst  thee, 
Unless  compelled  ;  for  though  an  enemy, 
Thy  head  is  holy  to  me  still. 

[Two  reports  of  cannon.    ILLO  and  TERTSKY  hurry 
to  the  window. 

Wai.  What's  that? 

Ter.  He  falls. 

Wai.  Falls!     Who? 

Illo.  Tiefenbach's  corps 

Discharge  the  ordnance. 

Wai.  Upon  whom? 

lilo.  On  Neumann, 

Your  messenger. 

Wai  (starting  up. )  Ha  !     Death  and  hell !     I  will— 

Ter.  Expose  thyself  to  their  blind  frenzy  ? 

Duck,  and  Coun.  No ! 

For  God's  sake,  No ! 

lUo.  Not  yet,  my  General ! 

Conn.  O,  hold  him !  hold  him  ! 

Wai.  Leave  me 

Max.  Do  it  not ; 

Not  yet !    This  rash  and  bloody  deed  has  thrown  them 
Into  a  frenzy-fit — allow  them  time 

Wai.  Away !  too  long  already  have  I  loitered. 
They  are  emboldened  to  these  outrages, 
Beholding  not  my  face.    They  shall  behold 

My  countenance,  shall  hear  my  voice 

Are  they  not  my  troops  ?    Am  I  not  their  General, 
And  their  long-feared  commander!    Let  me  see, 
Whether  indeed  they  do  no  longer  know 
That  countenance,  which  was  their  sun  in  battle ! 


332  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

From  the  balcony,  (mark!)  I  shew  myself 
To  these  rebellious  forces,  and  at  once 
Revolt  is  mounded,  and  the  high-swoln  cuirent 
Shrinks  back  into  the  old  bed  of  obedience. 

[Exit  WALLENSTEIN;  ILLO,  TERTSKY,  and  BUTLER 
follow. 

SCENE  IX. — COUNTESS,  DUCHESS,  MAX.  and  THEKLA. 

Coun.  (to  the  DUCHESS.)  Let  them  but  see  him — there 
is  hope  still,  sister. 

Duch.  Hope !  I  have  none ! 

Max.  (who  during  the  last  scene  has  been  standing  at  a  dis- 
tance in  a  visible  struggle  of  feelings,  advances.)  This  can 
I  not  endure. 

With  most  determined  soul  did  I  come  hither, 
My  purposed  action  seemed  unblameable 
To  my  own  conscience — and  I  must  stand  here 
Like  one  abhorred,  a  hard  inhuman  being; 
Yea,  loaded  with  the  curse  of  all  I  love  ! 
Must  see  all  whom  I  love  in  this  sore  anguish, 
Whom  I  with  one  word  can  make  happy — O ! 
My  heart  revolts  within  me,  and  two  voices 
Make  themselves  audible  within  my  bosom. 
My  soul's  benighted;  I  no  longer  can 
Distinguish  the  right  track.     O,  well  and  truly 
Didst  thou  say,  father,  I  relied  too  much 
On  my  own  heart.    My  mind  moves  to  and  fro — 
I  know  not  what  to  do. 

Coun.  What !  you  know  not  ? 

Does  not  your  own  heart  Ml  you  ?    Oh !  then  I 
Will  tell  it  you.    Your  father  is  a  traitor, 
A  frightful  traitor  to  us — he  has  plotted 
Against  our  General's  life,  has  plunged  us  all 
In  misery — and  you're  his  son  !    'Tis  yours 
To  make  the  amends — Make  you  the  sou's  fidelity 
Outweigh  the  father's  treason,  that  the  name 
Of  Piccolomini  be  not  a  proverb 
Of  infamy,  a  common  form  of  cursing 
To  the  posterity  of  Wallenstein. 

Max.  Where  is  that  voice  of  truth  which  I  dare  follow  f 
It  speaks  no  longer  in  my  heart.    We  all 
But  utter  what  our  passionate  wishes  dictate. 
O  that  an  angel  would  descend  from  Heaven, 
And  scoop  for  me  the  right,  the  uncorrupted, 
With  a  pure  hand  from  the  pure  Fount  of  Light. 

[  His  eyes  glance  on  TKEKI.A  . 
What  other  angel  seek  I  ?   To  this  heart, 
To  this  unerring  heart,  will  I  submit  it, 
Will  ask  thy  love,  which  has  the  power  to  bless 
The  happy  man  alone,  averted  ever 
From  the  disquieted  and  guilty — canst  thou 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  383 

Still  love  me,  if  I  stay  ?    Say  that  thou  canst, 
And  I  am  the  Duke's 

Court.  Think,  niece 

Max.  Think  nothing,  Thekla! 

Speak  what  thou  feelest. 

Coun.  Think  upon  your  father. 

Max.  I  did  not  question  thee,  as  Friedland's  daughter. 
Thee,  the  heloved  and  the  unerring  god 
Within  thy  heart,  I  question.    What's  at  stake  f 
Not  whether  diadem  of  royalty 
Be  to  he  won  or  not — that  might'st  thou  think  on. 
Thy  friend,  and  his  soul's  quiet,  are  at  stake ; 
The  fortune  of  a  thousand  gallant  men, 
Who  will  all  follow  me ;  shall  I  forswear 
My  oath  and  duty  to  the  Emperor  ? 
Say,  shall  I  send  into  Octavio's  camp 
The  parricidal  ball  ?    For  when  the  hall 
Has  left  its  cannon,  and  is  on  its  flight, 
It  is  no  longer  a  dead  instrument  I 
It  lives,  a  spirit  passes  into  it, 
The  avenging  furies  seize  possession  of  it, 
And  with  sure  malice  guide  it  the  worst  way. 

Thek.  Oh!  Max. [Thekla. 

Max.   (interrupting  her.)   Nay,  not  precipitately  either, 
I  understand  thee.     To  thy  noble  heart 
The  hardest  duty  might  appear  the  highest. 
The  human,  not  the  great  part,  would  I  act. 
Ev'n  from  my  childhood  to  this  present  hour, 
Think  what  the  Duke  has  done  for  me,  how  loved  me, 
And  think  too,  how  my  father  has  repaid  him. 
O  likewise  the  free  lovely  impulses 
Of  hospitality,  the  pious  friend's 
Faithful  attachment,  these  too  are  a  holy 
Religion  to  the  heart ;  and  heavily 
The  shudderings  of  nature  do  avenge 
Themselves  on  the  barbarian  that  insults  them. 
Lay  all  upon  the  balance,  all — then  speak, 
And  let  thy  heart  decide  it. 

Thek.  O,  thy  own 

Hath  long  ago  decided.    Follow  thou 
Thy  heart's  first  feeling 

Coun.  Oh !  ill-fated  woman  1 

Thek.  Is  it  possible,  that  that  can  be  the,right, 
The  which  thy  tender  heart  did  not  at  first 
Detect  and  seize  with  instant  impulse  ?    Go, 
Fulfil  thy  duty!    I  should  ever  love  thee.  [acted 

What  e'er  thou  hadst  chosen,  thou  would'st  still  have 
Nobly  and  worthy  of  thee — but  repentance 
Shall  ne'er  disturb  thy  soul's  fair  peace. 

Max.  Then  I 

Must  leave  thee,  must  part  from  thee ! 

Thek.  Being  faithful  • 


384  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

To  thine  own  self,  tliou  art  faithful  too  to  mej 

If  our  fates  part,  our  hearts  remain  united. 

A  bloody  hatred  will  divide  for  ever 

The  houses  Piccolomini  and  Friedland; 

But  we  belong  not  to  our  houses — GO  ! 

Quick!  quick!  and  separate  thy  righteous  cause 

From  our  unholy  and  unblessed  one ! 

The  curse  of  heaven  lies  upon  our  head : 

'Tis  dedicate  to  ruin.    Even  me 

My  father's  guilt  drags  with  it  to  perdition. 

Mourn  not  for  me : 

My  destiuy  will  quickly  be  decided. 

[MAX.  clasps  her  in  his  arms  in  extreme  emotion.  There 
is  heard  from  behind  the  Scene  a  loud,  wild,  long 
continued  cry,  VIVAT  FERDINANDUS,  accompanied 
by  warlike  instruments.  MAX.  and  THEKLA  re- 
main without  motion  in  each  other's  embraces. 

SCENE  X. — To  these  enter  TERTSKY. 

Coun.  (meeting  him.)  What  meant  that  cry  ?  What  was  it? 

Ter.  All  is  lost! 

Coun.  What!  they  regarded  not  his  countenance  ? 

Ter.  JTwas  all  in  vain. 

Diet*.  They  shouted  Vivat ! 

Ter.  To  the  Emperor. 

Coun.  The  traitors ! 

Ter.  Nay  !  he  was  not  once  permitted 

Even  to  address  them.     Soon  as  he  began, 
With  deafening  noise  of  warlike  instruments 
They  drown'd  his  words.  But  here  he  comes. 

SCENE  XL — To  these  enter  WALLENSTEIN,  accompanied  by 
ILLO  and  BUTLER. 

Wai  (as  he  enters.)  Tertsky! 

Ter.  My  General  ? 

Wai.  Let  our  regiments  hold  themselves 

In  readiness  to  march ;  for  we  shall  leave 
Pilsen  ere  evening.  [Exit  TERTSKY. 

Butler ! 

But.  Yes,  my  General. 

Wai.  The  Governor  at  Egra  is  your  friend 
And  countryman.    Write  to  him  instantly 
By  a  Post  Courier.    He  must  be  advised, 
That  we  are  with  him  early  on  the  morrow. 
You  follow  us  yourself,  your  regiment  with  you. 

But.  It  shall  be  done  my  General ! 

Wai.  (steps  between  MAX.  and  THEKLA,  who  have  remained 
during  this  time  in  each  other5 '«  arms.)  Part! 

Max.  O  God  I 


COLERIDGE. 


The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone. 

The  Ancient  Mariner,  page  17. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  335 

[Cuirassiers  enter  with  drawn  swords,   and  assemble  in 

the  back -ground.    At  the  same  time  there  are  heard  from 

below  some  spirited  passages  out  of   the  Pappenheim 

March,  irhich  seem  to  address  MAX.  [keep  him 

Wai.  (to  the  Cuirassiers.,)  Here  lie  is,  he  is  at  liberty  :   I 

No  longer. 

[He  turns  away,  and  stands  so  that  MAX.  cannot  pass 

by  him  nor  approach  the  PRINCESS. 
Max.  Thou  know'st  that  I  have  not  yet  learnt  to  live 
Without  thee !  I  go  forth  into  a  desert, 
Leaving  ray  all  behind  me.    O  do  not  turn 
Thine  eyes  away  from  me !     O  once  more  shew  mo 
Thy  ever  dear  and  honoured  countenance. 

[MAX.  attempts  to  take  his  hand,  but  is  repelled ;  he 

turns  to  the  COUNTESS. 
Is  there  no  eye  that  has  a  look  of  pity  for  me  ? 

[The  COUNTESS  turns  away  from  him;  he  turns  to  the 

DUCHESS. 
My  mother 

Duch.  Go  where  duty  calls  you.    Haply 

The  time  may  come,  when  you  may  prove  to  us 
A  true  friend,  a  good  angel  at  the  throne 
Of  the  Emperor. 

Max.  You  gi  vo  me  hope  ;  you  would  not 

Suffer  me  wholly  to  despair.    No!    No! 
Mine  is  a  certain  misery— Thanks  to  heaven 
That  offers  me  a  means  of  ending  it. 

[  The  military  music  begins  again.  The  stage  Jills  more 
and  more  with  armed  men.  MAX.  sees  BUTLER, 
and  addrcssi  s  him. 

And  you  here,  Colonel  Butler — and  will  you 
Not  follow  me  ?  Well,  then !  remain  more  faithful 
To  your  new  lord,  than  you  have  proved  yourself 
To  the  Emperor.    Come,  Butler!  promise  me, 
Give  me  your  hand  upon  it,  that  you'll  be 
The  guardian  of  his  life,  its  shield,  its  watchman. 
He  is  attainted,  and  his  princely  head 
Fair  booty  for  each  slave  that  trades  in  murder. 
Now  he  doth  need  the  faithful  eye  of  friendship, 
And  those  whom  here  I  see — 

[Casting  suspicious  looks  on  ILLO  for  BUTLER. 
Illo.  Go— seek  for  traitors 

In  Galas',  in  your  father's  quarters.    Here 
Is  only  one.    Away !  Away !  and  free  us 
From  his  detested  sight !    Away ! 

[MAX.  attempts  once  more  to  approach  THEKLA.  WALLEN- 
STEIN prevents  him.    MAX.  stands  irresolute,  and  in  ap- 
parent anguish.    In  the  mean  time  the  stage  Jills  more 
and  more  ;  and  the  horns  sound  from  below  louder  and 
louder,  and  each  time  after  a  shorter  interval. 
Max.  Blow,  blow  1    O  were  it  but  the  Swedish  trumpets, 
And  all  the  naked  swords,  which  I  see  here, 


380  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Were  plunged  into  my  breast !    What  purpose  you  ? 

You  come  to  tear  me  from  this  place !     Beware 

Ye  drive  me  not  to  desperation. — Do  it  not! 

Ye  may  repent  it ;  [  T/ie  stage  is  entirely  filled  with  armed  men. 

Yet  more  !  weight  upon  weight  to  drag  me  down! 

Think  what  ye're  doing.     It  is  not  well  done 

To  choose  a  man  despairing  for  your  leader; 

You  tear  me  from  my  happiness.     Well,  then, 

I  dedicate  your  souls  to  vengeance.    Mark! 

For  your  own  ruin  you  have  chosen  me  : 

Who  goes  with  me,  must  be  prepared  to  perish. 

\_He  turns  to  the  back-ground,  tliere  ensues  a  sudden  and 
violent  movement  among  the  Cuirassiers  ;  they  surround 
him,  and  carry  him  off  in  wild  tumult.  WALLENSTEIN 
remains  immovable.  THEKLA  sinks  into  her  mother's 
arms.  Tne  curtain  falls.  The  music  becomes  loud  and 
overpowering,  and  passes  into  a  complete  war-march — 
the  orchestra  jcins  it—  and  continues  during  the  interval 
between  the  second  and  th  ird  Act. 


ACT  III. 
SCENK  I. — The  Burgomaster's  House  at  Egra. 

But.  (Just   arrived.)  Here  then  he  is,  by  his  destiny  con- 
Here,  Friedland!  and  no  farther !  From  Bohemia  [ducted. 
Thy  meteor  rose,  traversed  the  sky  awhile, 
And  here  upon  the  borders  of  Bohemia 
Must  sink. 

Thou  hast  forsworn  the  ancient  colours, 
Blind  man  !  yet  trustest  to  thy  ancient  fortunes. 
Profaner  of  the  altar  and  the  hearth, 
Against  thy  Emperor  and  fellow-citizens 
Thou  mean'st  to  wage  the  war.     Friedland,  beware — 
The  ovil  spirit  of  revenge  impels  thee — 
Beware  thou,  that  revenge  destroy  thee  not ! 

SCENE  II. — BUTLER  and  GORDON. 

Gor.  Is  it  you  ? 

How  my  heart  sinks !    The  Duke  a  fugitive  traitor ! 
His  princely  head  attainted !    O  my  God ! 

But.  You  have  received  the  letter  which  I  sent  you 
By  a  post-courier. 

Gor. '  Yes !  and  in  obedience  to  it 

Opened  the  stronghold  to  him  without  scruple. 
For  an  imperial  letter  orders  me 
To  follow  your  commands  implicitly. 
But  yet  forgive  me ;  when  even  now  I  saw 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  337 

The  Duke  himself,  my  scruples  recommenced. 
For  truly,  not  like  an  attainted  man 
Into  this  town  did  Friedland  make  his  entrance; 
His  wonted  majesty  beamed  from  his  brow, 
And  calm,  as  in  the  days  when  all  was  right, 
Did  he  receive  from  me  the  accounts  of  office; 
'Tis  said,  that  fallen  pride  learns  condescension : 
But  sparing  and  with  dignity  the  Duke 
Weighed  every  syllable  of  approbation, 
As  masters  praise  a  servant  who  has  done 
His  duty,  and  no  more. 

But.  'Tis  all  precisely 

As  I  related  in  my  letter.    Friedland 
Has  sold  the  army  to  the  enemy, 
And  pledged  himself  to  give  up  Prague  and  Egra. 
On  this  report  the  regiments  all  forsook  him, 
The  five  excepted  that  belong  to  Tertsky, 
And  which  have  followed  him,  as  thou  hast  seen. 
The  sentence  of  attainder  is  passed  on  him, 
And  every  loyal  subject  is  required 
To  give  him  into  justice,  dead  or  living. 

Got'.  A  traitor  to  the  Emperor — Such  a  noble ! 
Of  such  high  talents!     What  is  human  greatness  ! 
I  often  said,  this  can't  end  happily. 
His  might,  his  greatness,  and  this  obscure  power 
Are  but  a  covered  pit- fall.     The  human  being 
May  not  be  trusted  to  self-government. 
The  clear  and  written  law,  the  deep-trod  foot-marks 
Of  ancient  custom,  are  all  necessary. 
To  keep  him  in  the  road  of  faith  and  duty. 
The  authority  entrusted  to  this  man 
Was  unexampled  and  unnatural, 
It  placed  him  on  a  level  with  his  Emperor, 
Till  the  proud  soul  unlearned  submission.     Wo  is  me ; 
I  mourn  for  him!  for  where  he  fell,  I  deem 
Might  none  stand  firm.     Alas !  dear  General, 
We  in  our  lucky  mediocrity 
Have  ne'er  experienced,  cannot  calculate, 
What  dangerous  wishes  such  a  height  may  breed 
In  the  heart  of  such  a  man. 

But.  Spare  your  laments 

Till  he  need  sympathy ;  for  at  this  present 
He  is  still  mighty,  and  still  formidable. 
The  Swedes  advance  to  Egra  by  forced  marches, 
And  quickly  will  the  junction  be  accomplished. 
This  must  not  be !    The  Duke  must  never  leave 
This  stronghold  on  free  footing ;  for  I  have 
Pledged  life  and  honour  here  to  hold  him  prisoner, 
And  your  assistance  'tis  on  which  I  calculate. 
Gor.  O  that  I  had  not  lived  to  see  this  day! 
From  his  hand  I  received  this  dignity. 
He  did  himself  entrust  this  stronghold  to  me, 


388 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


Which  I  am  now  required  to  make  his  dungeon. 
We  subalterns  have  no  will  of  our  own  : 
The  free,  the  mighty  maji  alone  may  listen 
To  the  fair  impulse  of  his  human  nature. 
Ah  !  we  are  hut  the  poor  tools  of  the  law, 
Obedience  the  sole  virtue  we  dare  aim  at! 

But.  Nay,  let  it  not  afflict  you,  that  your  power 
Is  circumscribed.    Much  liberty,  much  error! 
The  narrow  path  of  duty  is  securest. 

Gor.  And  all  then  have  deserted  him,  you  say  ? 
He  has  built  up  the  luck  of  many  thousands. 
For  kingly  was  his  spirit  :  his  full  hand 
Was  ever  open  !    Many  a  one  from  dust 

[  With  a  aide  glance  on  BUTLER. 
Hath  he  selected,  from  the  very  dust 
Hath  raised  him  into  dignity  and  honour. 
And  yet  no  friend,  not  one  friend  hath  he  purchased, 
Whose  heart  beats  true  to  him  in  the  evil  hour. 

But.  Here's  one,  I  see. 

Gor.  I  have  enjoyed  from  him 

No  grace  or  favour.     I  could  almost  doubt, 
If  ever  in  his  greatness  he  once  thought  on 
An  old  friend  of  his  youth.     For  still  my  office 
Kept  me  at  distance  from  him  ;  and  when  first 
He  to  this  cidatel  appointed  me, 
He  was  sincere  and  serious  in  his  duty. 
I  do  not  then  abuse  his  confidence, 
If  I  preserve  my  fealty  in  that 
Which  to  my  fealty  was  first  delivered. 

But.  Say,  then,  will  you  fulfil  the  attainder  on  him? 

Gor.  (pauses  reflecting  —  then  us  in  deep  dejection.)  If  it  be 

so  —  if  all  be  as  you  say  — 
If  he've  betrayed  the  Emperor,  his  master, 
Have  sold  the  troops,  have  purposed  to  deliver 
The  strongholds  of  the  country  to  the  enemy  — 
Yea,  truly  !—  there  is  no  redemption  for  him  !  — 
Yet  it  is  hard,  that  me  the  lot  should  destine 
To  be  the  instrument  of  his  perdition; 
For  we  were  pages  at  the  court  of  Bergau 
At  the  same  period  ;  but  I  was  the  senior. 

But.  1  have  heard  so 

Gor.  'Tis  full  thirty  years  since  then. 

A  youth  who  scarce  had  seen  his  twentieth  year 
Was  Wallenstein,  when  he  and  I  were  friends  : 
Yet  even  then  he  had  a  daring  soul: 
His  frame  of  mind  was  serious  and  severe 
Beyond  his  years  :  his  dreams  were  of  great  objects. 
He  walked  amidst  us  of  a  silent  spirit, 
Communing  with  himself:  yet  I  have  known  him 
Transported  on  a  sudden  into  utterance 
Of  strange  conceptions  ;  kindling  into  splendour 
His  soul  revealed  itself,  and  he  spake  so 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  389 

That  we  looked  round  perplexed  upon  each  other, 

Not  knowing  whether  it  was  craziness, 

Or  whether  it  were  a  god  that  spoke  in  him. 

But.  But  was  it  where  he  fell  two  stories  high 
From  a  window-ledge,  on  which  he  had  fallen  asleep 
And  rose  up  free  from  injury  ?    From  this  day 
(It  is  reported)  he  betrayed  clear  marks 
Of  a  distempered  fancy. 

Cor.  He  became 

Doubtless  more  self-enwrapt  and  melancholy  ; 
He  made  himself  a  Catholic.    Marvellously 
His  marvellous  preservation  had  transformed  him. 
Thenceforth  he  held  himself  for  an  exempted 
And  privileged  being,  and,  as  if  he  were 
Incapable  of  dizziness  or  fall, 
He  ran  along  the  unsteady  rope  of  life. 
But  now  our  destinies  drove  us  asunder : 
He  paced  with  rapid  step  the  way  of  greatness, 
Was  Count,  and  Prince,  Duke-regent,  and  Dictator. 
And  now  is  all,  all  this  too  little  for  him  ; 
He  stretches  forth  his  hands  for  a  king's  crown, 
And  plunges  in  unfathomable  ruin. 

But.  No  more,  he  comes. 

SCENE  III. — To  tliesc  enter  WALLENSTEIN,  in  conversation 
with  the  Burgomaster  of  Egra. 

Wai.  You  were  at  one  time  a  free  town.     I  see, 
Ye  bear  the  half  eagle  in  your  city  arms. 
Why  the  half  eagle  only  f 

Burg.  We  were  free, 

But  for  these  last  two  hundred  years  has  Egra 
Remained  in  pledge  to  tbe  Bohemian  crown, 
Therefore  we  bear  the  half  eagle,  the  other  half 
Being  cancelled  till  the  empire  ransom  us, 
II  ever  that  should  be. 

Wai.  Ye  merit  freedom. 

Only  be  firm  and  dauntless.    Lend  your  ears 
To  no  designing,  whispering  court-minions. 
What  may  your  imposts  be  ? 

Burg.  So  heavy  that 

We  totter  under  them.    The  garrison 
Lives  at  our  costs. 

Wai.  I  will  relieve  you.    Tell  me, 
There  are  some  Protestants  among  you  still? 

[  The  Burgomaster  hesitates. 
Yes,  yes ;  I  know  it.    Many  lie  concealed 
Within  these  walls — Confess  now — you  yourself — 

[  Fixes  his  eye  on  him.     The  Burgomaster  alarmed. 
Be  not  alarmed.    I  hate  the  .Jesuits. 
Could  my  will  have  determined  it,  they  had 
Been  long  ago  expelled  the  empire.    Trust  me— 


390  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

« 

Mass-book  or  bible— 'tis  all  one  to  me. 
Of  that  the  world  has  had  sufficient  proof. 
1  built  a  church  for  the  reformed  ill  Glogan 
At  my  own  instance.     Hark'e  Burgomaster ! 
What  is  your  name  1 

Burg.  Pachhalbel,  may  it  please  you 

Wai.  Hark'e! 

But  let  it  go  no  further,  what  I  now 
Disclose  to  you  ia  confidence. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  the  Burgomaster's  shoulder  with 
a  certain  solemnity. 

The  times 

Draw  near  to  their  fulfilment,  Burgomaster! 
The  high  will  fall,  the  low  will  be  exalted. 
Hark'e !    But  keep  it  to  yourself!    The  end 
Approaches  of  the  Spanish  double  monarchy — 
A  new  arrangement  is  at  hand.    You  saw 
The  three  moons  that  appeared  at  once,  in  the  Heaven. 

Burg.  With  wonder  and  affright! 

Wai.  Whereof  did  two 

Strangely  transform  themselves  to  bloody  daggers, 
And  only  one,  the  middle  moon,  remained 
Steady  and  clear. 

Burg.  We  applied  it  to  the  Turks.        [pi res 

Wai.  The  Turks!  That  all?— I  tell  you,  that  two  eui- 
Will  set  in  blood,  in  the  East  and  in  the  West,  [BUTLER. 
And  Luth'ranism  alone  remain.  [Observing  GORDON  and 

F  faith, 

'Twas  a  smart  cannonading  that  we  heard 
This  evening,  as  we  journeyed  hitherward; 
'Twas  on  our  left  hand.     Did  you  hear  it  here  f 

Gor.  Distinctly.    The  wind  brought  it  from  the  South. 

But.  It  seemed  to  come  from  Weideii  or  from  Neustadt. 

Wai.  'Tis  likely.  That's  the  route  the  Swedes  are  taking. 
How  strong  is  the  garrison  f 

Gor.  Not  quite  two  hundred 

Competent  men,  the  rest  are  invalids. 

Wai.  Good!    And  how  many  in  the  vale  of  Jochim  ? 

Gor.  Two  hundred  Arquebussiers  have  I  sent  thither 
To  fortify  the  posts  against  the  Swedes.  [too 

Wai.  Good !  I  commend  your  foresight.  At  the  works 
You  have  done  somewhat  ? 

Gor.  Two  additional  batteries 

I  caused  to  bo  run  up.    They  were  needless. 
The  Rhinogravo  presses  hard  upon  us,  General !  • 

Wai.  You  have  been  watchful  in  your  Emperor's  service. 
I  am  content  with  you,  Lieutenant-Colonel.    [ToBuxLFR. 
Release  the  outposts  in  the  vale  of  Jochiin 
With  all  the  stations  in  the  enemy's  route.    [To  GORDON. 
Governor,  in  your  faithful  hands  J  leave 
My  wife,  my  daughter,  and  my  sister.    I 
Shall  make  no  stay  here,  and  wait  but  the  arrival 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  391 

Of  letters,  to  take  leave  of  you,  together 
With  all  the  regiments. 

SCENE  IV. — To  these  enter  COUNT  TERTSKY. 

Ter.  Joy,  General ;  joy !    I  bring  you  welcome  tidings. 

Wai.  And  what  may  they  be  ? 

Ter.  There  has  been  an  engagement 

At  Neustadt ;  the  Swedes  gained  the  victory. 

Wai.  From  whence. did  you  receive  the  intelligence? 

Ter.  A  countryman  from  Tirschenseil  conveyed  it. 
Soon  after  sunrise  did  the  fight  begin  ! 
A  troop  of  the  Imperialists  from  Fachau 
Had  forced  their  way  into  the  Swedish  camp; 
The  cannonade  continued  full  two  hours; 
There  were  left  dead  upon  the  field  a  thousand 
Imperialists  together,  with  their  Colonel ; 
Further  than  this  he  did  not  know. 

Wai.  How  came 

Imperial  troops  at  Neustadt?    Altringer 
But  yesterday,  stood  sixty  miles  from  there. 
Count  Galas'  force  collects  at  Frauenberg, 
And  have  not  the  full  complement.     Is  it  possible, 
That  Suys  perchance  had  ventured  so  far  onward  ? 
It  cannot  be. 

Ter.  We  shall  soon  know  the  whole, 

For  here  comes  Illo,  full  of  haste,  and  joyous. 

SCENE  V. — To  these  enter  ILLO. 

Illo.  (to  WALLENSTEIN.)  A  courier,  Duke!  he  wishes  to 

speak  with  thee. 

Ter.  (eaf/erly.)Does  he  bring  confirmation  of  the  victoiy  ? 
Wai.  (at  the  same  time.)  What   does  he  bring  ?  Whence 

comes  he  ? 

Illo.  From  the  Rhinegrave. 

And  what  he  brings  I  can  announce  to  you 
Before  hand.    Seven  leagues  distant  are  the  Swedes ; 
At  Neustadt  did  Max.  Piccolomini 
Throw  himself  on  them  with  the  cavalry ; 
A  murderous  fight  took  place !     o'erpowered  by  numbers 
The  Pappeuheimers  all,  with  Max,  their  leader, 

[WALLENSTEIN  shudders  and  turns  pale. 
Were  left  dead  on  the  field. 

Wai.  (after  a  pause,  in  a  low  voice.)    Where  is  the  messen- 

•  ger  ?     Conduct  me  to  him. 

[WALLENSTEIN  is  going,  when  LADY  NEUBRUNN  rushes 
into   the  room.     Some  Servants  follow  her  and  run 
across  the  staye. 
Neu.  Help!  Help! 

Illo.  and  Tertsky.  (at  the  same  time.)  What  now  ? 
Neu.  The  Princess ! 


.  392  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Wai.  and  Ter.  Does  she  know  it  ? 

Neu.  (at  the  same  time  with  them.)    She  is  dying  ! 

[Hurries  off  the  stage  when  WALLENSTEIN  awdTERTSKY 
follow  her. 

SCENE  VI.  — BUTLER  and  GORDON. 

Gor.  What's  this? 

But.  She  has  lost  the  man  she  lov'd — 

Young  Piccolomini  who  fell  in  the  battle. 

Gor.  Unfortunate  Lady ! 

But.  You  have  heard  what  Illo 

Reporteth,  that  the  Swedes  are  conquerors, 
And  marching  hitherward. 

Gor.  Too  well  I  heard  it.         [five 

But.  They  are  twelve  regiments  strong,  and  there  are 
Close  by  us  to  protect  the  Duke.      We  have 
Only  my  single  regiment ;  and  the  garrison 
Is  not  two  hundred  strong. 

Gor.  'Tis  even  so. 

But.  It  is  not  possible  with  such  small  force 
To  hold  in  custody  a  man  like  him, 

Gor.  I  grant  it. 

But.  Soon  the  numbers  would  disarm  us, 

And  liberate  him. 

Gor.  It  were  to  be  feared. 

But.  (after  a  pause.)  Know,  I  am  warranty  for  the  event; 
With  my  head  have  I  pledged  myself  for  his, 
Must  make  my  word  good,  cost  it.  what  it  will, 
And  if  alive  we  cannot  hold  him  prisoner, 
Why — death  makes  all  things  certain  ! 

Gor.  Butler!   what? 

Do  I  understand  you  ?    Gracious  God!     You,  could — 

But.  He  must  not  live. 

Gor.  And  you  can  do  the  deed! 

But.  Either  you  or  I.    This  morning  was  his  last. 

Gor.  You  would  assassinate  him. 

But.  'Tis  my  purpose. 

Gor.  Who  leans  with  his  whole  confidence  upon  you! 

But.  Such  is  his  evil  destiny ! 

Gor.  Your  General ! 

The  sacred  person  of  your  General ! 

But.  My  General  he  has  been. 

Gor.  That  'tis  only 

An  u  has  been"  washes  out  no  villany. 
And  without  judgment  passed  ? 

But.  The  execution 

Is  here  instead  of  judgment. 

Gor.  This  were  murder, 

Not  justice.    The  most  guilty  should  be  heard. 

But.  His  guilt  is  clear,  the  Emperor  has  passed  judgment, 
And  we  but  execute  his  will. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  393 

Gor.  We  should  not 

Hurry  to  realize  a  bloody  sentence. 
A  word  may  be  recalled,  a  life  can  never  be, 

But.  Dispatch  in  service  pleases  sovereign 

Gor.  No  honest  man's  ambitious  to  press  forward 
To  the  hangman's  service. 

But.  And  no  brave  man  loses 

His  colour  at  a  daring  enterprize. 

Gor.  A  brave  man  hazards  life,  but  not  his  conscience. 

But.  What  then  ?    (Shall  he  go  forth  anew  to  kindle 
The  unextinguishable  fame  of  war  ? 

Gor.  Seize  him*,  and  hold  him  prisoner — do  not  kill  him! 

But.  Had  not  the  Emperor's  army  been  defeated, 
I  might  have  done  so. — But  'tis  now  past  by. 

Gor.  O,  wherefore  opened  I  the  stronghold  to  him  I 

Sat.  His  destiny  and  not  the  place  destroys  him. 

Gor.  Upon  these  ramparts,  as  beseemed  a  soldier, 
I  had  fallen,  defending  the  Emperor's  citadel ! 

But.  Yes!  and  a  thousand  gallant  men  have  perished. 

Gor.  Doing  their  duty — that  adorns  the  man  ! 
But  murder's  a  black  deed,  and  nature  curses  it. 

But.  (brings  out  a  paper.)  Here  is  the  manifesto  which 
To  gain  possession  of  his  person.    See —         [commands  us 
It  is  addressed  to  you  as  well  as  me. 
Are  you  content  to  take  the  consequences, 
If  through  our  fault  he  escape  to  the  enemy. 

Gor.  I  ? — Gracious  God ! 

But.  Take  it  on  yourself. 

Come  of  it  what  it  may,  on  you  I  lay  it. 

Gor.  O  God  in  heaven  ! 

But.  Can  you  advise  aught  else 

Wherewith  to  execute  the  Emperor's  purpose? 
Say  if  you  can.    For  I  desire  his  fall, 
Not  his  destruction. 

Gor.  Merciful  heaven !  what  must  be 

I  see  as  clear  as  you.     Yet  still  the  heart 
Within  my  bosom  beats  with  other  feelings ! 

But.  Mine  is  of  harder  stuff!    Necessity 
In  her  rough  school  hath  steeled  me.    And  this  Illo 
And  Tertsky  likewise,  they  must  not  survive  him. 

Gor.  I  feel  no  pang  for  these.    Their  own  bad  hearts 
Impelled  them,  not  the  influence  of  the  stars. 
'T\va3  they  who  strewed  the  seeds  of  evil  passions 
In  his  calm  breast,  and  with  officious  villany 
Watered  and  nursed  the  pois'nous  plants.    May  they 
Receive  their  earnests  to  the  uttermost  mite ! 

But.  And  their  death  shall  precede  his ! 
We  meant  to  have  taken  them  alive  this  evening 
Amid  the  merry-making  of  a  feast, 
And  keep  them  prisoners  in  the  citadels. 
But  this  makes  shorter  work.     I  go  this  instant 
To  give  the  necessary  orders. 
Q* 


394  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

SCENE  VII. — To  these  enter  ILLO  and  TERTSKY. 

Ter.  Our  luck  is  on  the  turn.    To-morrow  come 
The  Swedes — twelve  thousand  gallant  warriors,  Illo! 
Then  straightways  for  Vienna.     Cheerily  friend! 
What!  meet  such  news  with  such  a  moody  face  ? 

Illo.  It  lies  with  us  at  present  to  prescribe 
Laws,  and  take  vengeance  on  those  worthless  traitors, 
Those  skulking  cowards  that  deserted  usj 
One  has  already  done  his  bitter  penance, 
The  Piccolomini,  be  his  the  fate     » 
Of  all  who  wish  us  evil!    This  flies  sure 
To  the  old  man's  heart ;  he  has  his  whole  life  long 
Fretted  and  toiled  to  raise  his  ancient  house 
From  a  Count's  title  to  the  name  of  Prince ; 
And  now  must  seek  a  grave  for  his  only  son. 

But.  'Twas  pity  though!    A  youth  of  such  heroic 
And  gentle  temperament!     The  Duke  himself, 
'Twas  easily  seen,  how  near  it  went  to  his  heart. 

Illo.  Hark'e,  old  friend!    That  is  the  very  point 
That  never  pleased  me  in  our  General — 
He  ever  gave  the  preference  to  the  Italians. 
Yea,  at  this  very  moment,  by  my  soul ! 
He'd  gladly  see  us  all  dead  ten  times  over, 
Could  he  thereby  recall  his  friend  to  life.  [business 

Ter.  Hush,   hush!     Let  the  dead  rest!  This  evening's 
Is,  who  can  fairly  drink  the  other  down — 
Your  regiment,  Illo!  gives  the  entertainment. 
Come!  we  will  keep  a  merry  carnival  — 
The  night  for  once  be  day,  and  mid  full  glasses 
Will  we  expect  the  Swedish  Avantgarde. 

Illo.  Yes,  let  us  be  of  good  cheer  for  to-day. 
For  there's  hot  work  before  us,  friend  !    This  sword 
Shall  have  no  rest,  till  it  be  bathed  to  the  hilt 
In  Austrian  blood. 

Gor.  Shame,  shame  !  what  talk  is  this, 

My  Lord  Field  Marshal  ?    Wherefore  foam  you  so 
Against  your  Emperor  ? 

But.  Hope  not  too  much 

From  this  first  victory.     Bethink  you,  sirs! 
How  rapidly  the  wheel  of  Fortune  turns j 
The  Emperor  still  is  formidably  strong. 

Illo.  The  Emperor  has  soldiers,  no  commander, 
For  this  King  Ferdinand  of  Hungary 
Is  but  a  Tyro.    Galas  ?  He's  no  luck, 
And  was  of  old  the  miner  of  armies. 
And  then  this  Viper,  this  Octavio, 
Is  excellent  at  stabbing  in  the  back, 
But  ne'er  meets  Fried  land  in  the  open  field. 

Ter.  Trust  me,  my  friends,  it  cannot  but  succeed  ; 
Fortune,  we  know  can  ne'er  forsake  the  Duke ! 
And  only  under  Wallenstein  can  Austria 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  395 

Be  conqueror. 

Illo.  The  Duke  will  soon  assemble 

A  mighty  army,  all  comes  crowding,  streaming 
To  banners,  dedicate  by  destiny, 
To  fame,  and  prosperous  fortune.    I  behold 
Old  times  come  back  again,  he  will  become 
Once  more  the  mighty  Lord  which  he  has  been. 
How  will  the  fools,  who've  now  deserted  him, 
Look  then  ?  I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  of  them, 
For  lands  will  he  present  to  all  his  friends, 
And  like  a  King  and  Emperor  reward 
True  services;  but  we've  the  nearest  claims.  [To  GORDON. 
You  will  not  be  forgotten,  Governor! 
He'll  take  you  from  this  nest  and  bid  you  shine 
In  higher  station :  your  fidelity 
Well  merits  it. 

Gor.  I  am  content  already, 

And  wish  to  climb  no  higher  j  where  great  height  is 
The  fall  must  needs  be  great.  "  Great  height,  great  depth." 

Illo.  Here  you  have  no  more  business,  for  to-morrow 
The  Swedes  will  take  possession  of  the  citadel. 
Come,  Tertsky,  it  is  supper-time.    What  think  you  ? 
Say,  shall  we  have  the  State  illuminated 
In  honor  of  the  Swede  ?    And  who  refuses 
To  do  it  is  a  Spaniard  and  a  traitor. 

Ter.  Nay!  Nay!  not  that,  it  will  not  please  the  Duke — 

Illo.  What !  we  are  masters  here ;  no  soul  shall  dare 
Avow  himself  imperial,  where  we've  the  rule. 
Gordon !  Good  night,  and  for  the  last  time,  take 
A  fair  leave  of  the  place.    Send  out  patroles 
To  make  secure,  the  watch-word  may  be  altered 
At  the  stroke  often  ;  deliver  in  the  keys 
To  the  Duke  himself,  and  then  you're  quit  for  ever 
Your  wardship  of  the  gates,  for  on  to-morrow 
The  Swedes  will  take  possession  of  the  citadel.        [castle. 

Ter.  (as  he  is  going,  to  BUTLER.)   You  come  though  to  the 

But.  At  the  right  time. 

[Exeunt  TERTSKY  and  ILLO. 

SCENE  VIII.— GORDON  and  BUTLER. 

Gor.   (looking  after  them.)     Unhappy  men!      How  free 

from  all  foreboding ! 

They  rush  into  the  outspread  net  of  murder, 
In  the  blind  drunkenness  of  victory  ; 
I  have  no  pity  for  their  fate.     This  Illo, 
This  overflowing  and  fool-hardy  villain 
That  would  fain  bathe  himself  in  his  Emperor's  blood. 

But.  Do  as  he  ordered  you.    Send  round  patroles, 
Take  measures  for  the  citadel's  security ; 
When  they  are  within  I  close  the  castle  gate 
That  nothing  may  transpire. 

Gor.  (with  earnest  anxiety.)  Oh !  haste  not  so! 


396  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Nay,  stop  ;  first  tell  me 

But.  You  have  heard  already, 

To-inorrow  to  the  Swedes  belongs.    This  night 
Alone  is  ours.     They  make  good  expedition, 
But  we  will  make  still  greater.     Fare  you  well. 

Gor.  Ah  !  your  looks  tell  me  nothing  good.    Nay,  Butler, 
I  pray  you,  promise  me  ! 

But.  The  sun  has  set ; 

A  fateful  evening  doth  descend  upon  us, 
And  brings  on  their  long  night !    Their  evil  stars 
Deliver  them  unarmed  into  our  hands, 
And  from  their  drunken  dream  of  golden  fortunes 
The  dagger  at  their  heart  shall  rouse  them.    Well, 
The  Duke  was  ever  a  great  calculator ; 
His  fellow-men  were  figures  on  his  chess-board, 
To  move  and  station,  as  his  game  required. 
Other  men's  honour,  dignity,  good  name, 
Did  he  phift  like  pawns,  and  made  no  conscience  of  it : 
Still  calculating,  calculating  still ; 
And  yet  at  last  his  calculation  proves 
EiToueous;  the  whole  game  is  lost ;  and  lo ! 
His  own  life  will  he  found  among  the  forfeits. 

Gor.  O  think  not  of  his  errors  now  ;  remember 
His  greatness,  his  munificence,  think  on  all 
The  lovely  features  of  his  character, 
On  all  the  noble  exploits  of  his  life, 
And  let  them,  like  an  angel's  arm,  unseen 
Arrest  the  lifted  sword. 

But.  It  is  too  late. 

I  suffer  not  myself  to  feel  compassion, 
Dark  thoughts  and  bloody  are  my  duty  now  ! 

[Grasping  GORDON'S  hand. 
Gordon  !  'Tis  not  my  hatred  (I  pretend  not 
To  love, the  Duke,  and  have  no  cause  to  love  him), 
Yet  'tis  not  now  my  hatred  that  impels  me 
To  be  his  murderer.     'Tis  his  evil  fate. 
Hostile  concurrences  of  many  events 
Control  and  subjugate  me  to  the  office. 
In  vain  the  human  being  meditates 
Free  action.     He  is  but  the  wire-worked*  puppet 
Of  the  blind  power,  ^vhich  out  of  his  own  choice 
Creates  for  him  a  dread  necessity. 
What  too  would  it  avail  him,  if  there  wci •<• 
A  something  pleading  for  him  in  my  heart — 
Still  I  must  kill  him. 

Gor.  If  your  heart  speak  to  you, 

Follow  its  impulse.    'Tis  the  voice  of  God. 
Think  you  your  fortunes  will  grow  prosperous 
Bedewed  with  blood — his  blood  ?    Believe  it  not !        [pen, 

But.  You  know  not — Ask  not !    Wherefore  shonld  it  hap- 
*  We  doubt  the  propriety  of  putting  so  blasphemous  a  sentiment 
in  the  mouth  of  any  character.— T. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  397 

That  the  Swedes  gained  the  victory,  and  hasten 

With  such  forced  marches  hitherward  f    Fain  would  I 

Have  given  him  to  the  Emperor's  mercy. — Gordon  ! 

I  do  not  wish  his  blood — But  I  must  ransom 

The  honour  of  my  word — it  lies  in  pledge —  [hand. 

And  he  must  die,  or [Passionately  grasping  GORDON'S 

Listen  then,  and  know  ! 
I  am  dishonoured  if  the  Duke  escape  us. 

Gor.  O !  to  save  such  a  man 

But.  What! 

Gor.  It  is  worth 

A  sacrifice, — Come,  friend!  Be  noble-minded! 
Our  own  heart,  and  not  other  men's  opinions, 
Forms  our  true  honour. 

But.  (with  a  cold  and  haughtg  air.)  He  is  a  great  Lord, 
This  Duke — and  I  am  hut  of  mean  importance. 
This  is  what  you  would  say  I    Wherein  concerns  it 
The  world  at  large,  you  mean  to  hint  to  me, 
Whether  the  man  of  low  extraction  keeps 
Or  blemishes  his  honour — 
So  that  the  man  of  princely  rank  be  saved. 
We  all  do  stamp  our  value  on  ourselves. 
The  price  we  challenge  for  ourselves  is  given  us. 
There  does  not  live  on  earth  the  man  so  stationed, 
That  I  despise  myself  compared  with  him. 
Man  is  made  great  or  little  by  his  own  will ; 
Because  I  am  true  to  mine,  therefore  ho  dies. 

Gor.  I  am  endeavouring  to  move  a  rock. 
Thou  hadst  a  mother,  yet  no  human  feelings. 
I  ..cannot  hinder  you,  but  may  some  God 
Eescue  him  from  you !  [  Ext t  G<  >RDON. 

SCENE  IX. 

But.  (alone.')  Itreasured  my  good  name  all  my  life  long ; 
The  Duke  has  cheated  me  of  life's  best  jewel, 
So  that  I  blush  before  this  poor  weak  Gordon  ! 
He  prizes  above  all  his  fealty  ; 
Hia  const io  as  soul  accuses  him  of  nothing; 
In  opposition  to  his  own  soft  heart 
He  subjugates  himself  to  an  iron  duty. 
Me  in  a  weaker  moment  passion  warped ; 
I  stand  beside  him,  and  must  feel  myself 
The  worse  man  of  the  two.   What,  though  the  world 
Is  ignorant  of  my  purposed  treason,  yet 
One  man  does  know  it,  and  can  prove  it  too — 
High-minded  Piccolomini ! 
There  lives  the  man  who  can  dishonour  mo  ! 
This  ignominy  blood  alone  can  cleanse ! 
Duke  Friedland,  thou  or  I — Into  my  own  hands  [self. 

Fortune  delivers  me — The  dearest  thin";  a  man  has  is  him- 


398  THE    DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — BUTLER'S  Chamber. 
BUTLER,  MAJOR,  and  GERALDIN. 

But.  Find  me  twelve  strong  Dragoons,  arm  them  with 
pikes, 

For  there  must  be  no  firing 

Conceal  them  somewhere  near  the  banquet  room, 
And  soon  as  the  dessert  is  served  up,  rush  all  in 
And  cry — Who  is  loyal  to  the  Emperor ; 
I  will  overturn  the  table — while  you  attack 
II lo  and  Tertsky,  and  dispatch  them  both. 
The  castle-palace  is  well  barred  and  guarded, 
That  no  intelligence  of  this  proceeding 
May  make  its  way  to  the  Duke. — Go  instantly ; 
Have  you  yet  sent  for  Captain  Devereux 
And  the  Macdonald  ? 

Get:  They'll  be  here  anon.  [Exit  GERALDIN. 

But.  Here's  no  room  for  delay.    The  citizens 
Declare  for  him,  a  dizzy  drunken  spirit 
Possesses  the  whole  town.     They  see  in  the  Duke 
A  Prince  of  peace,  a  founder  of  new  ages 
And  golden  times.     Arms  too  have  been  given  out 
By  the  town-council,  and  an  hundred  citizens 
Have  volunteered  themselves  to  stand  on  guard. 
Dispatch  then  be  the  word.     For  enemies 
Threaten  us  from  without  and  from  within. 

SCENE  II. — BUTLER,  CAPTAIN  DEVEREUX,  and  MACDONALD. 

Mac.  Here  we  are,  General. 

Dev.  What's  to  be  the  watchword  ? 

But.  Long  live  the  Emperor ! 

Both  (recoiling.}  How? 

But.  Live  the  House  of  Austria. 

Dev.  Have  we  not  sworn  fidelity  to  Friedlaiid  ? 

Mac.  Have  we  not  marched  to  this  place  to  protect  him  I 

But.  Protect  a  traitor,  and  his  country's  enemy ! 

Dev.  Why,  yes !  in  his  name  you  administered 
Our  oath: 

Mac.        And  followed  him  yourself  to  Egra. 

But.  I  did  it  the  more  surely  to  destroy  him. 

Dev.  So,  then ! 

Mac.  An  altered  case ! 

But.  (to  DEVERKUX.)  Thou  wretched  man! 

So  easily  leav'st  thou  thy  oath  and  colours  ? 

Dev.  The  devil ! — I  but  followed  your  example, 
If  you  could  prove  a  villain,  why  not  we?  [ness. 

Mac.  We've  nought  to  do  with  thinking — that's  your  busi- 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  399 

You  are  our  General,  and  give  out  the  orders ; 
We  follow  you,  though  the  track  lead  to  hell. 

But.  (appeased.}  Good  then!  we  know  each  other. 

Mac.  I  should  hope  so. 

Dev.  Soldiers  of  fortune  are  we — who  bids  most, 
He  has  us. 

Mac.  'Tis  e'en  so ! 

But.  Well,  for  the  present 

Ye  must  remain  honest  and  faitful  soldiers. 

Dev.  We  wish  no  other. 

But.  Aye,  and  make  your  fortunes. 

Mac.  That  is  still  hetter. 

But.  Listen ! 

Both.  We  attend. 

But.  It  is  the  Emperor's  will  and  ordinance 
To  seize  the  person  of  the  Prince-Duke  Friedland, 
Alive  or  dead. 

Dev.  It  runs  so  in  the  letter. 

Mac.  Alive  or  dead — these  were  the  very  words. 

But.  And  he  shall  be  rewarded  from  the  State 
In  land  and  gold  who  proffers  aid  thereto.  [well 

Dev.  Ay?    That  sounds  well.      The  words  sound  always 
That  travel  hither  from  the  Court.    Yes !  yes  ! 
We  know  already  what  Court-words  import. 
A  golden  chain  perhaps  in  sign  of  favour, 
Or  an  old  charger,  or  a  parchment  patent, 
And  such  like. — The  Prince-Duke  pays  better. 

Mac.  Yrs, 

The  Duke's  a  splendid  paymaster. 

But.  All  over 

With  that,  my  friends.    His  lucky  stars  are  set. 

Mac.  And  is  that  certain  f 

But.  You  have  my  word  for  it. 

Der.  His  lucky  fortunes  all  past  by  I 

But.  For  ever. 

He  is  as  poor  as  we. 

Mac.  As  poor  as  we  ? 

Dev.  Macdonald,  we'll  desert  him. 

But.  We'll  desert  him  ? 

Full  twenty  thousand  have  done  that  already  ; 
We  must  do  more,  my  countrymen !  In  short — 
We — we  must  kill  him. 

Both,  (starting  back.)        Kill  him ! 

But.  Yes !   must  kill  him. 

And  for  that  purpose  have  I  chosen  you. 

Both.  Us ! 

But.  You,  Captain  Devereux,  and  the  Macdonald. 

Dev.  (after  a  pause.)  Chuse  you  some  other. 

But.  What  ?  art  dastardly  ? 

Thou,  with  full  thirty  lives  to  answer  for — 
Thou  conscientious  of  a  sudden  ? 

Dev.  Nay, 


400  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

To  assassinate  our  Lord  and  General — 

Mac.  To  whom  we've  sworn  a  soldier's  oath — 

But.  The  oath 

Is  null,  for  Friedland  is  a  traitor. 

Dev.  No,  no !     It  is  too  bad  I 

Mac.  Yes,  by  my  soul ! 

It  is  too  bad.    One  has  a  conscience  too — 

Dev.  If  it  were  not  our  Chieftain,  who  so  long 
Has  issued  the  commands,  and  claim'd  our  duty. 

But.  Is  that  the  objection  ? 

Dev.  Were  it  my  own  father, 

And  the  Emperor's  service  should  demand  it  of  me, 
It  might  be  done  perhaps — But  we  are  soldiers, 
And  to  assassinate  our  Chief  Commander, 
That  is  a  sin,  a  foul  abomination, 
From  which  no  Monk  or  Confessor  absolves  us. 

But.  I  am  your  Pope,  and  give  you  absolution. 
Determine  quickly ! 

Dev.  'Twill  not  do ! 

Mac.  'Twont  do ! 

But.  Well,  oif  then!  and — send  Pestalutz  to  me. 

Dev.  (hesitates.)  The  Pestalutz— 

Mac.  What  may  you  want  with  him  ? 

But.  If  you  reject  it,  we  can  find  enough — 

Dev.  Nay,  if  he  must  fall,  we  may  earn  the  bounty 
As  well  as  any  other.    What  think  you, 
Brother  Macdouald  t 

Mac.  Why  if  he  must  fall. 

And  will  fall,  and  it  can't  be  otherwise, 
One  would  not  give  place  to  this  Pestalutz.  [fall  f 

Dev.  (after  some  reflection.)  When  do  you  purpose  he  should 

But.  This  night. 

To-morrow  will  the  Swedes  be  at  our  gates. 

Dev.  You  take  upon  you  all  the  consequences  T 

But.  I  take  the  whole  upon  me. 

Dev.  And  it  is 

The  Emperor's  will,  his  express  absolute  will? 
For  we  have  instances,  that  folks  may  like 
The  murder,  and  yet  hang  tl  e  murde*  er. 

But.  The  manifesto  says — jilive  or  dead. 
Alive — 'tis  not  possible — you  see  it  is  not.  [him  ? 

Dev.  Well,  dead  then  !  dead!    But  how  can  we  come  at 
The  town  is  fill'd  with  Tertsky's  soldiery. 

Mac.  Ay !  and  then  Tertsky  still  remains,  and  Illo — 

But.  With  these  you  shall  begin — you  understand  mo? 

Dev.  How  ?  And  must  they  too  perish  ? 

But.  They  the  first. 

Mac.  Hear,  Devereux  I  A  bloody  evening  this. 

Dev.  Have  you  a  man  for  that  ?    Commission  ine — 

But.  'Tis  given  in  trust  to  Major  Geraldiu; 
This  is  a  carnival  night,  and  there's  a  feast 
Given  at  the  Castle — there  we  shall  surprise  them, 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  401 

And  hew  them  down.    The  Postal utz,  and  Lesley 
Have  that  commission — soon  as  that  is  finished — 

Dev.  Hear,  General !  It  will  be  all  one  to  you. 
Hark'e !  lot  me  exchange  with  Geraldin. 

But.  'Twill  be  the  lesser  danger  with  the  Duke.      [eral  ? 

Dev.  Danger!    The  devil!    What  do  you  think  me,  Gen- 
'Tis  the  Duke's  eye,  and  not  his  sword,  I  fear. 

But.  What  can  his  eye  do  to  thee  ? 

Dev.  Death  and  hel  1 ! 

Though  know'st  that  I'm  no  milk-sop,  General ! 
But  'tis  not  eight  days  since  the  Duke  did  send  me 
Twenty  gold  pieces  for  this  good  warm  coat 
Which  I  have  on  !  and  then  for  him  to  see  nie 
Standing  before  him  with  the  pike,  his  murderer. 
That  eye  of  his  looking  upon  this  coat — 
Why — why — the  devil  fcteh  me!  I'm  110  milk-sop ! 

But.  The  Duke  presented  theo  this  good  warm  coat, 
And  thou,  a  needy  wight,  hast  pangs  of  conscience 
To  run  him  through  the  body  in.  return. 
A  coat  that  is  far  better  and  far  warmer 
Did  the  Emperor  give  to  him,  the  Prince's  mantle. 
How  doth  he  thank  the  Emperor  ?    With  revolt, 
And  treason. 

Dev.  That  is  true.    The  devil  take 

Such  thankers  !  I'll  dispatch  him. 

But.  And  would'st  quiet 

Thy  conscience,  thou  hast  naught  to  do  but  simply 
Pull  off  the  coat ;  so  can'st  tbou  do  the  deed 
With  light  heart  and  good  spirits. 

Dev.  You  are  right. 

That  did  not  strike  me.    I'll  pull  off  the  coat — 
So  there's  an  end  of  it. 

Mac.  Yes,  but  there's  another 

Point  to  be  thought  of. 

But.  And  what's  that,  Macdonald  ? 

Mac.  What  avails  sword  or  dagger  against  him  f 
He  is  not  to  bo  wounded — he  is — • 

Bui.  (starting up.)  What? 

Mac.  Safe  against  shot,  and  stab  and  flash!  Hard  frozen, 
Secured,  and  warranted  by  the  black  art ! 
His  body  is  impenetrable,  I  tell  you. 

Dev.  In  Inglestadt  there  was  just  such  another. 
His  whole  skin  was  the  same  as  steel ;  at  last 
We  were  obliged  to  beat  him  down  with  gunstocks. 

Mac.  Hear  what  I'll  do. 

Dev.  Well  ? 

Mac.  In  the  cloister  here 

There's  a  Dominican,  my  countryman. 
I'll  make  him  dip  my  sword  and  pike  for  me 
In  holy  water,  and  say  over  them 
One  of  his  strongest  blessings.     That's  probatum ! 
Nothing  can  stand  'gainst  that. 


402  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

But.  So  do,  Macdonald ! 

But  now  go  and  select  from  out  the  regiment 
Twenty  or  thirty  abled-bodied  fellows, 
And  let  thein  take  the  oaths  to  the  Emperor. 
Then  when  it  strikes  eleven,  when  the  first  rounds 
Are  passed,  conduct  them,  silently  as  may  be, 
To  the  house — I  will  myself  be  not  far  off. 

Dev.  But  how  do  we  get  through  Hartschier  and  Gordon, 
TLat  stand  on  guard  there  in  the  inner  chamber? 

But.  1  have  made  myself  acquainted  with  the  place. 
I  lead  you  through  a  back-door  that's  defended 
By  ono  mail  only.     Me  my  rank  and  office 
Give  access  to  tho  Duke  at  every  hour. 
I'll  go  before  you — with  one  poniard-stroke 
Cut  Hartschier's  wind  pipe,  and  make  way  for  you.    [gain 

Dev.  And  when  we  are  there,  by  what  means  shall  we 
The  Duke's  bed-chamber,  without  his  alarming 
The  servants  of  tho  Court ;  for  ho  has  here 
A  numerous  company  of  followers  ? 

But.  Tho  attendants  fill  the  right  wing;  he  hates  bustle, 
And  lodges  in  the  left  wing  quite  alone. 

Dev.  Were  it  well  over — hey,  Macdonald  I    I 
Feel  queerly  on  the  occasion,  devil  knows! 

Mac.  And  I  too.    'Tis  too  great  a  personage. 
People  will  hold  us  for  a  brace  of  villains. 

But.  In  plenty,  honour,  splendour — You  may  safely 
Laugh  at  the  people's  babble. 

Dev.  If  the  business 

Squares  with  one's  honour — if  that  be  quite  certain — [naud 

But.  Set  your  hearts  quite  at  ease.    Ye  save  for  Ferdi- 
His  crown  and  Empire.    The  reward  can  be 
No  small  one. 

Dev.  And  'tis  his  purpose  to  dethrone  tho  Emperor  ? 

But.  Yes! — Yes! — to  rob  him  of  his  Crown  and  Life. 

Dev.  And  he  must  fall  by  tho  executioner's  hands, 
Should  we  deliver  him  up  to  the  Emperor 
Alive? 

But.  It  were  his  certain  destiny. 

Dev.  Well!  Well!  Come  then,  Macdonald,  he  shall  not 
Lie  long  in  pain. 

[Exeunt  BUTLER  through  one  door,  MACDOXAI.D  and 
DEVEREUX  through  the  other. 

SCENE  III. — A  Gothic  and  gloomy  Apartment  at  the  DUCHESS 
FRIEDLAND'S.  THEKLA  on  a  8<at,  pale,  her  eyes  closed. 
The  DUCHESS  and  LADY  NEUBRUNX  busied  about  her. 
WALLENSTEIX  and  the  C  OUNTESS  in  conversation. 

Wai.  How  knew  she  it  so  soon  ? 

Coun.  She  seems  to  have 

Foreboded  some  misfortune.    Tho  report 
Of  an  engagement,  in  the  which  had  fallen 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  403 

A  colonel  of  the  Imperial  army,  frighten'd  her. 

I  saw  it  instantly      She  flew  to  meet 

The  Swedish  Courier,  and  with  sudden  questioning, 

Soon  wrested  iroiii  him  the  disastrous  secret. 

Too  late  wo  missed  her,  hastened  after  her, 

Wo  found  her  lying  iii  his  arms,  all  pale 

And  hi  a  swoon. 

Wai.  A  heavy,  heavy  blow! 

And  she  so  unprepared !     Poor  child !     How  is  it  ? 

[Turning  to  the  DUCHESS. 
Is  she  coming  to  herself? 

Duch.  Her  eyes  are  opening. 

Coun.  She  lives. 

Thek.  (looking  round  her.)  Where  am  I? 

Wai.  (steps  to  her,  raising  her  up  in  his  arms.)  Come,  cheerly, 

Thekla !  be  my  own  brave  girl ! 
See,  there's  thy  loving  mother.    Thou  art  in 
Thy  father's  arms. 

Th  k.  (standing  up.)  Where  is  he  ?    Is  he  gone  ? 

Duch.  Who  gone,  my  daughter? 

Thek.  He — the  man  who  uttered 

That  word  of  misery. 

Duch.  O  !  think  not  of  it, 

My  Thekla ! 

Wai.  Give  her  sorrow  leave  to  talk  ! 

Let  her  complain — mingle  your  tears  with  her's, 
For  she  hath  suffered  a  deep  anguish;  but 
She'll  rise  superior  to  it,  for  my  Thekla 
Hath  all  her  father's  unsubdued  heart. 

Thek.  I  am  not  ill.    See,  I  have  power  to  stand. 
Why  does  my  mother  weep  ?    Have  I  alarmed  her  ? 
It  is  gone  by — I  recollect  myself. 

[She  casts  her  eyes  around  the  room,  as  seeking  some  one. 
Where  is  he  ?    Please  you,  do  not  hide  him  from  me. 
You  see  I  have  strength  enough  :  now  I  will  hear  him. 

Duch.  No,  never  shall  this  messenger  of  evil 
Enter  again  into  thy  presence,  Thekla ! 

Thek.  My  father— 

Wai.  Dearest  daughter ! 

Thek.  I  am  not  weak — 

Shortly  I  shall  be  quite  myself  again. 
You'll  gran:  me  one  request  f 

Wai.  Name  it,  my  daughter. 

Thek.  Permit  the  stranger  to  be  called  to  me, 
And  grant  me  leave,  that  by  myself  I  may 
Hear  his  report  and  question  him. 

JUuch.  No,  never! 

Coun.  'Tis  not  advisable — assent  not  to  it. 

Wai.  Hush !  Wherefore  would'st  thou  speak  with  him, 
my  daughter  ? 

Thek.  Knowing  the  whole,  I  shall  be  more  collected  ; 
I  will  not  be  deceived.    My  mother  wishes 


404  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Only  to  spare  me.     1  will  not  be  spared. 
The  worst  is  said  already :  I  can  hear 
Nothing  of  deeper  anguish  ! 

Conn,  and  Duch.  Do  it  not. 

Thek.  The  horror  overpowered  me  by  surpri  e. 
My  heart  betrayed  me  in  the  stranger's  presence  ; 
He  was  a  witness  of  my  weakness,  yea, 
I  sank  into  his  arms ;  and  that  has  shamed  me. 
I  must  replace  myself  in  bis  esteem, 
And  I  must  speak  with  him,  perforce,  that  he, 
The  stranger,  may  not  think  ungently  of  me. 

Wai.  I  see  she  is  in  the  right,  and  am  inclined 
To  grant  her  this  request  of  her's.     Go,  call  him. 

[LADY  NEUBRUXN  gcea  io  call  him. 

Duch.  But  I,  thy  mother,  will  be  present — 

Thek.  'Tweio 

More  pleasing  to  me,  if  alone  I  saw  him  : 
Trust  me,  I  shall  behave  myself  the  more 
Collectedly. 

Wai.  Permit  her  her  own  will. 

Leave  her  alone  with  him :  for  there  are  sorrows, 
Where  of  necessity  the  soul  must  be 
Its  own  support.     A  strong  heart  will  rely 
Ou  its  own  strength  alone.    In  her  own  bosom, 
Not  in  her  mother's  arms,  must  she  collect 
The  strength  to  rise  superior  to  this  blow. 
It  is  mine  own  brave  girl.    I'll  have  her  treated 
Not  as  the  woman,  but  the  heroine. 

Coun.  (detaining  him.)   Where  art  thou  going  I    I  heard 

Tertsky  say 

That  'tis  thy  purpose  to  depart  from  hence 
To-morrow  early,  but  to  leave  us  here. 

Wai.  Yes,  ye  stay  here,  placed  under  the  protection 
Of  gallant  men. 

Coun.  O  take  us  with  you,  brother. 

Leave  us  not  in  this  gloomy  solitude, 
To  brood  o'er  anxious  thoughts.    The  mists  of  doubt 
Magnify  evils  to  a  shape  of  horror. 

Wai.  Who  speaks  of  evil  ?  I  entreat  you,  i  ister, 
Use  words  of  better  omen. 

Conn.  Then  take  us  with  you. 

0  leave  us  not  behind  you  in  a  place 
That  forces  us  to  such  sad  omens.    Heavy 
And  sick  within  me  is  my  heart 

These  walls  breathe  on  me,  like  a  church-yard  vault. 

1  cannot  tell  you,  brother,  how  this  place 
Doth  go  against  my  nature.     Take  us  with  you. 
Come,  sister,  join  you  your  entreaty  I — Niece, 
Tour's  too      We  all  entreat  you,  1  ftkeua  with  you ! 

Wai.  The  place's  evil  omens  will  I  change, 
Making  it  that  which  shields  and  shelters  for  DLC 
My  best-beloved. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  405 

Lady  Neu.  (returning.}  The  Swedish  officer. 

Wai.  Leave  her  alone  with  me.  [Exit. 

Duch.  (to  THEKLA,  who  starts  and  shivers.)  There — pale  as 

death! — Child,  'tis  impossible 

That  thoti  should'st  speak  with  him.    Follow  thy  mother. 
Thek.  The  Lady  Neubrunn  then  may  stay  with  me. 

[Exeunt  DUCHESS  and  COUNTESS. 

SCENE  IV. — THEKLA,  the  Swedish  Captain,  LADY 
NEUBRUNN. 

Cap.  (respectfully  approaching  her.)  Princess — I  must  en- 
treat your  gentle  pardon — 
My  inconsiderate  rash  speech. — How  could  I — 

Thek.  (with  dignity.)  You  have  beheld  me  in  my  agony. 
A  most  distressful  accident  occasioned 
You  from  a  stranger  1o  become  at  once 
My  confidant. 

Cap.  I  fear  you  hate  my  presence, 

For  my  tongue  spake  a  melancholy  word. 

Thek.    The  fault  is  mine.     Myself  did  wrest  it  from  you. 
The  horror  which  came  o'er  me  interrupted 
Your  tale  at  its  commencement.    May  it  please  you, 
Continue  it  to  the  end. 

Cap.  Princess,  'twill 

Renew  your  anguish. 

2hek.  I  am  firm.— 

I  will  be  firm.    Well — how  began  the  engagement  f 

Cap.  We  lay,  expecting  no  attack,  at  Neustadt, 
Entrenched  but  insecurely  in  our  camp, 
When  towards  evening  rose  a  cloud  of  dust 
From  the  wood  thitherward;  our  vanguard  fled 
Into  the  camp,  and  sounded  the  alarm. 
Scarce  had  we  mounted,  ere  the  Pappenheimers, 
Their  horses  at  full  speed,  broke  through  the  linea, 
And  leapt  the  trenches ;  but  their  heedless  courage 
Had  borne  them  onward  far  before  the  others — 
The  infantry  were  still  at  distance,  only 
The  Pappenheimers  followed  daringly 

Their  daring  leader 

THEKLA  letrays  agitation  in  her  gestures.     The  Officer 
pauses  till  she  makes  a  sign  to  him  to  proceed. 

Cap.  Both  in  van  and  flanks 

With  our  whole  cavalry  we  now  received  them, 
Back  to  the  trenches  drove  them,  where  the  foot 
Stretched  out  a  solid  ridge  of  pikes  to  meet  them. 
They  neither  could  advance,  nor  yet  retreat; 
And  as  they  stood  on  every  side  wedged  in, 
The  Rhinegrave  to  their  leader  called  aloud, 
Inviting  a  surrender ;  but  their  leader, 

Young  Piccolomini 

THEKLA,  as  giddy,  grasps  a  chair. 


406  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Known  l)y  his  plume, 

And  his  long  hair,  gave  signal  for  the  trenches ; 
Himself  leapt  first,  tha  regiment  all  plunged  after. 
His  charger,  by  an  halbert  gored,  reared  up, 
Flung  him  with  violence  off,  and  over  him 

The  horses,  now  no  longer  to  be  curbed, 

[THEKLA,  who  has  accompanied  the  last  speech  w'lh  all 
the  marks  of  increasing  agony,  trembles  through  her 
whole  frame,  and  is  failing.  The  LADY  NEUBKUNN 
runs  to  her,  and  receives  her  ire  her  arms. 

Neu.  My  dearest  lady 

Cap.  I  retire. 

Thek.  'Tis  over. 

Proceed  to  the  conclusion. 

Cap.  Wild  despair 

Inspired  the  troops  with  frenzy  when  they  saw 
Their  leader  perish  ;  every  thought  of  rescue 
Was  spurn'd  ;  they  fought  like  wounded  tigers ;  their 
Frantic  resistance  rousxl  our  soldiery  ; 
A  murderous  light  took  place,  nor  was  the  contest 
Finish'd  before  their  last  man  fell. 

Thek.  (faltering.)  And  where 

Where  is — You  have  not  told  me  all. 

Cap.  (after  a  pause.)  This  morning 

We  buried  him.     Twelve  youths  of  noblest  birth 
Did  bear  him  to  interment ;  the  whole  array 
Followed  the  bier.    A  laurel  decked  his  coffin  ; 
The  sword  of  the  deceased  was  placed  upon  it, 
la  mark  of  honour,  by  the  Rbinegrave's  self. 
Nor  tears  were  wanting :  for  there  are  among  us 
Many,  who  had  themselves  experienced 
The  greatness  of  his  mind,  and  gentle  manners  j 
All  were  affected  at  his  fate.     The  Rhinegru  ve 
Would  willingly  have  saved  him ;  but  himself 
Made  vain  the  attempt — 'tis  said  he  wished  to  die. 

Neu.  (to  THEKLA  who  has  hidden  her  countenance.)  Look  up, 
my  dearest  lady 

TJiek.  Where  is  his  grave  ? 

Cap.  At  Neustadt,  lady ;  in  a  cloister  church 
Are  his  remains  deposited,  until 
We  can  receive  directions  from  his  father. 

Thek.  What  is  the  cloister's  name  ? 

Cap.  Saint  Catharine's. 

Thek.  And  how  far  is  it  thither  ? 

Cap.  Near  twelve  leagues. 

Thek.  And  which  the  way? 

Cap.  You  go  by  Tirschenreit 

And  Falkenberg,  through  our  advanced  posts. 

Thek.  Who 

Is  their  commander  ? 

Cap.  Colonel  Seckendorf. 

[THEKLA  steps  to  the  table,  and  takes  a  ring  from  a  casket. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


407 


Thek.  You  have  beheld  me  in  my  agony, 
And  shewn  a  feeling  heart.    Please  you,  accept 

[Giving  him  the  ring. 
A  small  memorial  of  this  hour.    Now  go ! 

Cap.  (confused.)  Princess 

[THEKLA  silently  makes  signs  to  Mm  to  go,  and  turns  from 
him.  The  Captain  lingers,  and  is  about  to  speak. 
LADY  NEUBRUNN  repeats  the  signal,  and  he  retires. 

SCENE  V. — THEKLA,  LADY  NEUBRUNN. 

Thek.  (falls  on  LADY  NEUBRUNN'S  neck.)  Now,  gentle 

Neubrnnn,  shew  me  the  affection 
Which  thou  hast  ever  promised — prove  thyself 
My  own  true  friend  and  faithful  fellow-pilgrim. 
This  night  we  must  away ! 

Neu.  Away !  and  whither  ? 

Thek.  Whither !    There  is  but  one  place  in  the  world. 
Thither  where  he  lies  buried !    To  his  coffin  ! 

Neu.  What  would  you  do  there  ? 

Thek.  What  do  there  ? 

That  would'st  thou  not  have  asked,  hadst  thou  e'er  loved. 
There,  there  is  all  that  still  remains  of  him. 
That  single  spot  is  the  whole  earth  to  me. 

Neu.  That  place  of  death 

Thek.  Is  now  the  only  place, 

Where  life  yet  dwells  for  me :  detain  me  not ! 
Come  and  make  preparations :  let  us  think 
Of  means  to  fly  from  hence. 

Neu.  Your  father's  rage 

Thek.  That  time  is  past 

And  now  I  fear  no  human  being's  rage.  [umny 

Neu.  The  sentence  of  the  world !     The  tongue    of  cal- 

Thek.  Whom  am  I  seeking?    Him  who  is  no  more. 

Am  I  then  hastening  to  the  arms O  God ! 

I  haste  but  to  the  grave  of  the  beloved. 

Neu.  And  we  alone,  two  helpless  feeble  women  ? 

Thek.  We  will  take  weapons :  my  arm  shall  protect  thee. 

Neu.  In  the  dark  night-time  ? 

Thek.  Darkness  will  conceal  us. 

Neu.  This  rough  tempestuous  night -t. 

Thek.  Had  lie  a  soft  bed 

Under  the  hoofs  of  his  war-horses  ? 

Neu.  Heaven ! 

And  then  the  many  posts  of  the  enemy ! — 

Thek.  They  are  human  beings.    Misery  travels  free 
Through  the  whole  earth. 

Neu.  The  journey's  weary  length 

Thek.  The  pilgrim,  travelling  to  a  distant  shrine 
Of  hope  and  healing,  doth  not  count  the  leagues. 

Neu.  How  can  we  pass  the  gates  ? 

Thek.  Gold  opens  them. 


403  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Go,  do  but  go. 

Neu.  Should  we  be  recognised— 

Thek.  In  a  despairing  woman,  a  poor  fugitive, 
Will  no  one  seek  the  daughter  of  Duke  Friedland. 

Neu.  And  where  procure  we  horses  for  our  flight  ? 

Thek.  My  equerry  procures  them.     Go  and  fetch  him. 

Neu.  Dares  he,  without  the  knowledge  of  his  lord  ? 

Thek.  He  will.    Go,  only  go.     Delay  no  longer. 

Neu.  Dear  lady!  and  your  mother? 

Thek.  Oh!  my  mother! 

Neu.  So  much  as  she  has  suffered  too  already ; 
Your  tender  mother — Ah !  how  ill  prepared 
For  this  last  anguish ! 

Thek.  Woe  is  me !  my  mother !      [  Pauses. 

Go  instantly. 

Neu.  But  think  what  you  are  doing  ! 

Thek.  What  can  be  thought,  already  has  been  thought. 

Neu.  And  being  there,  what  purpose  you  to  do  f 

Thek.  There  a  Divinity  will  prompt  my  soul. 

Neu.  Your  heart,  dear  lady,  is  disquieted ! 
And  this  is  not  the  way  that  leads  to  quiet. 

Thek.  To  a  deep  quiet,  such  as  he  has  found. 
It  draws  me  on,  I  know  not  what  to  name  it, 
Resistless  does  it  draw  me  to  his  grave. 
There  will  my  heart  be  eased,  my  tears  will  flow. 
O,  hasten,  make  no  further  questioning ! 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  till  I  have  left 
These  walls— they  fall  in  on  me — A  dim  power 
Drives  me  from  hence— Oh  mercy!    What  a  feeling ! 
What  pale  and  hollow  forms  are  those !    They  fill, 
They  crowd  the  place !    I  have  no  longer  room  here ! 
Mercy!     Still  more!     More  still!     The  hideous  swarm! 
They  press  on  me ;  they  chase  me  from  these  walls — 
Those  hollow,  bodiless  forms  of  living  men  ! 

Neu.  You  frighten  me  so,  lady,  that  no  longer 
I  dare  stay  here  myself.    I  go  and  call 
Rosenberg  instantly.  [Exit  LADY  NEUBRUNN. 

SCENE  VI. 

Thek.  His  spirit  'tis  that  calls  me :  'tis  the  troop 
Of  his  true  followers,  who  offered  up 
Themselves  to  avenge  his  death  :  and  they  accuse  me 
Of  an  ignoble  loitering — they  would  not 
Forsake  their  leader  even  in  his  death — they  died  for  him  1 

And  shall /live 

For  me  too  was  that  laurel-garland  twined 

That  decks  his  bier.     Life  is  an  empty  casket : 

I  throw  it  from  me.     O!  my  only  hope; — 

To  die  beneath  the  hoofs  of  trampling  steeds — 

That  is  the  lot  of  heroes  upon  earth !  [Exit  THEKLA.* 

*  The  soliloquy  of  Thekla  consists  in  the  original  of  six  and  twenty 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  409 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — A  Saloon,  terminated  by  a  gallery  ivhich  extends  far 
into  the  lack-ground.    WALLENSTEIN  sitting  at  a  table. 
The  Swedish  Captain  standing  before  him. 
Wai.  Commend  me  to  your  lord.    I  sympathize 
In  his  good  fortune  ;  and  if  you  have  seen  ine 
Deficient  in  the  expressions  of  that  joy, 
Wbich  such  a  victory  might  well  demand, 
Attribute  it  to  no  lack  of  good  will, 
For  henceforth  are  our  fortunes  one.     Farewell, 
And  for  your  trouble  take  my  thanks.    To-morrow 
The  citadel  shall  be  surrendered  to  you 
On  your  arrival. 

[The  Swedish  Captain  retires.    WALLENSTEIN  sits  lost 
in  thought,  his  eyes  fixed  vacantly,  and  his  head  sus- 
tained by  his  hand.     The  COUNTKSS  TERTSKY  enters, 
stands  before  him  awhile, unobserved  by  him;  at  length 
he  starts,  sees  her,  and  recollects  himself. 
Wai.  Coin'stthou  from  her  ?  Is  she  restored  ?  How  is  she  ? 
Coun.  My  sister  tells  me,  she  was  more  collected 
After  her  conversation  with  the  Swede. 
She  has  now  retired  to  rest. 

Wai.  The  pang  will  soften , 

She  will  shed  tears. 

Coun.  I  find  thee  altered  too, 

My  brother !    After  such  a  victory 
I  had  expected  to  have  found  in  thee 
A  cheerful  spirit.     O  remain  thou  firm  ! 
Sustain,  uphold  us !   For  our  light  thou  art, 
Our  sun. 

Wai.        Be  quiet.     I  ail  nothing.     Where's 
Thy  husband? 

Coun.  At  a  banquet — he  and  Illo. 

Wai.  (rises  and  strides  across  the  saloon.)  The  night's  far 

spent.     Betake  thee  to  thy  chamber. 
Coun.  Bid  me  not  go,  O  let  me  stay  with  thee! 
Wai.  (moves  to  the  window.)  There  is  a  busy  motion  in  the 

Heaven, 

The  wind  doth  chase  the  flag  upon  the  tower, 
Fast  sweep  the  clouds,  the  sickle*  of  the  moon, 

lines,  twenty  of  which  are  in  rhymes'  of  irregular  recurrence.  I 
thought  it  prudent  to  abridge  it.  Indeed  the  whole  scene  between 
Thekla  and  Lady  Neubrunn  might,  perhaps,  have  been  omitted 
without  injury  to  the  play. 

*  These  four  lines  are  expressed  in  the  original  with  exquisite 
felicity. 

Am  Himmel  ist  geschaftige  Bewegung, 
Des  Thurmes  Fahne  jagt  der  Wind,  schnellgeht 
Der  Wolken  Zug.  die  Mondes-sichet  wankt. 
Und  durch  die  Nacht  zuckt  ungewisse  Helle. 
The  word  "moon-sickle,"  reminds  me  of  a  passage  in  Harris,  as 
B 


410  THE  DEATH  OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

Struggling,  darts  snatches  of  uncertain  light. 

No  form  of  star  is  visible !    That  one 

White  stain  of  light,  that  single  glimmering  yonder, 

Is  from  Cassiopeia,  and  therein 

Is  Jupiter.     (A pause.)     But  now 

The  blackness  of  the  troubled  element  hides  him! 

[He  sinks  into  profound  melancholy,  and  looks  ia- 
cantly  into  the  distance. 

Coun.  (looks  on  him  mournfully,  then  grasps  his  hand.) 
What  art  tbou  brooding  on  ? 

Wai.  Metbinks, 

If  I  but  saw  him,  'twould  be  well  with  me. 
He  is  the  star  of  my  nativity, 
And  often  marvellously  hath  his  aspect 
Shot  strength  into  my  heart. 

Conn.  Thou'lt  see  him  again. 

Wai.  (remains  for  a  ichile  with  absent  mind,  then  assumes  a 
livelier  manner,  and  turns  suddenly  to  the  COUNTESS.) 
See  him  again?  O  never,  never  again. 

Coun.  How  ? 

Wai.  He  is  gone — is  dust. 

Coun.  Whom  meau'st  th«m  then  ? 

Wai.  He,  the  more  fortunate  !  yea,  he  hath  finished  ! 
For  him  there  is  no  longer  any  future, 
His  life  is  bright— bright  without  spot  it  was, 
And  cannot  cease  to  be.     No  ominous  hour 
Knocks  at  his  door  with  tidings  of  mishap. 
Far  off  is  he,  above  desire  and  fear; 
No  more  submitted  to  the  change  and  chance 
Of  the  unsteady  planets.    O  'tis  well 
With  him !  but  who  knows  what  the  coming  hour 
Veil'd  lu  thick  darkness  brings  for  ns! 

Covn.  Thou  speak. -sf 

Of  Piccolomini.     What  was  his  death? 
The  Courier  had  just  left  thee,  as  1  came. 

[WALLENSTEIX   by  a  motion  of  liis  hand  make*  »iyns 

to  her  to  be  si  lent. 

Turn  not  thine  eyes  upon  the  backward  view, 
Let  us  look  forward  into  sunny  days, 
Welcome  with  joyous  heart  the  victory, 
Forget  what  it  has  cost  thee.    Not  to-day, 
For  the  first  time,  thy  friend  was  to  thee  dead; 
To  thee  he  died,  when  first  he  parted  from  thee. 

quoted  by  Johnson,  under  the  word  "falcated."  "The  enlight- 
ened part  of  the  moon  appears  in  the  form  of  a  sickle  or  reaping- 
hook,  which  is  while  she  is  moving  from  the  conjunction  to  the  op- 
position, or  from  the  new  moon  to  the  full;  but  from  full  to  a,  new 
again,  the  enlightened  part  appears  gibbous,  and  the  dark  falrutrd." 
The  words  "  wanken  f'  and  "schweben  "  are  not  easily  translated. 
The  English  words  by  which  we  attempt  to  render  them,  art-  either 
vulgar  or  pedantic,  or  not  of  sufficiently  general  application.  So 
"der  Wolken  Zug "— The  Draft,  the  Procession  of  Clouds.— The 
Masses  of  the  Clouds  s<veep  onward  in  swift  stream. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  411 

Wai.  Tliis  anguish  will  be  wearied  down,*  I  know; 
What  pang  is  permanent  with  man  ?    From  the  highest, 
As  from  the  vilest  thing  of  every  day 
He  learns  to  wean  himself:  for  the  strong  hours 
Conquer  him.     Yet  I  feel  what  I  have  lost 
In  him.     The  bloom  is  vanished  from  my  life. 
For  O  !  he  stood  beside  me,  like  my  youth, 
Transformed  for  me  the  real  to  a  dream, 
Clothing  the  palpable  and  the  familiar 
With  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn. 
Whatever  fortunes  wait  my  future  toils, 
The  leaut;ful  is  vanished — and  returns  not. 

Conn.  O  be  not  treacherous  to  thy  own  power. 
Thy  heart  is  rich  enough  to  vivify 
Itself.     Thou  lov'st  and  prizest  virtues  in  him, 
The  which  thyself  did'st  plant,  thyself  unfold,  [late  hour? 

Wai.  (stepping  to  the  door.)  Who  interrupts  us  now  at  this 
It  is  the  Governor.     He  brings  the  keys 
Of  the  Citadel.    'Tis  midnight.    Leave  me,  sister! 

Conn.  O  'tis  so  hard  to  me  this  night  to  leave  thee — 
A  boding  fear  possesses  me  1 

Wai  Fear  ?    Wherefore  f 

Coun.  Should'st  thou  depart  this  night,  and  we  at  waking 
Never  more  find  thee ! 

Wai.  Fancies  I 

Coun.  O  my  soul 

Has  long  been  weighed  down  by  these  dark  foreboding*. 
And  if  I  combat  and  repel  them  waking, 
They  still  rush  down  upon  my  heart  in  dreams. 
I  saw  thee  yesternight  with  thy  first  wife 
Sit  at  a  banquet  gorgeously  attired. 

Wai.  This  was  a  dream  of  favourable  omen, 
That  marriage  being  the  founder  of  my  fortunes. 

Coun.  To-day  I  dreamt  that  I  was  seeking  thee 
In  thy  own  chamber.    As  I  entered,  lol 
It  was  no  more  a  chamber,  the  Chartreuse 
At  Gitschin  'twas,  which  thou  thyself  hast  founded, 
And  where  it  is  thy  will  that  thou  should'st  be 
Intel  red. 

Wai.      Thy  soul  is  busy  with  these  thoughts. 

Coun.  What,  dost  thou  not  believe  that  oft  in  dreams 
A  voice  of  warning  speaks  prophetic  to  us  ? 

Wai.  There  is  no  doubt  that  there  exist  such  voices. 
Yet  I  would  not  call  them 
Voices  of  warning  that  announce  to  us 

*  A  very  inadequate  translation  of  the  original. 

"  Verschmerzen  \verd  ich  diesen  Sch'ag.  das  weiss  ich, 
Dennwas  verschmertze  nicht  der  Mensch !" 

LITERALLY. 

I  shall  grieve  down  this  blow,  of  that  I'm  conscious: 
What  does  not  man  grieve  down  ? 


412  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN". 

Only  the  inevitable.    As  the  sun, 

Ere  it  is  risen,  sometimes  paints  its  image 

In  the  atmosphere,  so  often  do  the  spirits 

Of  great  events  stride  on  before  the  events, 

And  in  to-day  already  walks  to-morrow. 

That  which  we  read  of  the  fourth  Henry's  death 

Did  ever  vex  and  haunt  ine  like  a  tale 

Of  my  own  future  destiny.     The  King 

Felt  in  his  breast  the  phantom  of  the  knife, 

Long  ere  Ravaillac  ann'd  himself  therewith. 

His  quiet  mind  forsook  him  :  the  phantasma 

Started  him  in  his  Louvre,  chased  him  foith 

Into  the  open  air :  like  funeral  knells 

Sounded  that  coronation  festival ; 

And  still  with  boding  sense  he  heard  the  tread 

Of  those  feet  that  ev'n  then  were  seeking  him 

Throughout  the  streets  of  Paris. 

Conn.  And  to  thee 

The  voice  within  thy  soul  bodes  nothing  ? 

Wai.  Nothing. 

Be  wholly  tranquil. 

Conn.  And  another  time 

I  hastened  after  thee,  and  thou  ran'st  from  me 
Through  a  long  suite,  through  many  a  spacious  hall, 
There  seemed  no  end  of  it :  doors  creaked  and  clapped ; 
I  followed  panting,  but  could  not  o'ertake  thee  j 
When  on  a  sudden  did  I  feel  myself 

Grasped  from  behind — the  hand  was  cold, that  grasped  me — 
'Tvvas  thou,  and  thou  did'st  kiss  me,  and  there  seemed 
A  crimson  covering  to  envelop  us. 

Wai.  That  is  the  crimson  tapestry  of  my  chamber. 

Conn,  (gazing  on  him.)  If  it  should  come  to  that — if  I 

should  see  thee, 

Who  standest  now  before  me  in  the  fulness 
Of  life —  [She  falls  on  his  breast  and  weep*. 

Wai.  The  Emperor's  proclamation  weighs  upon  thee — 
Alphabets  wound  not — and  he  finds  no  hands. 

Conn.  If  he  should  find  them,  my  resolve  is  taken — 
I  bear  about  me  my  support  and  refuge.     [Exit  COUNTESS. 


SCENE  II.— WALLENSTEIN,  GORDON. 

Wai.  All  quiet  in  the  town  ? 

Gor.  The  town  is  quiet. 

Wai.  I  hear  a  boisterous  music !  and  the  Castle 
Is  lighted  up.    Who  are  the  revellers  f 

Gor.  There  is  a  banquet  given  at  the  Castle 
To  the  Count  Tertsky,  and  Field  Marshal  Illo. 

iVul.  In  honour  of  the  victory. — This  tribe 
Can  show  their  joy  in  nothing  else  but  feasting, 

[ Rings.     The  Groom  of  the  Chamber  en  tern. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  413 

Unrobe  me.    I  will  lay  me  down  to  sleep. 

[WALLENSIIEIN  ta  kcs  the  keys  from  GORDON. 
So  we  are  guarded  from  all  euernies, 
And  shut  in  with  sure  friends. 
For  all  must  cheat  me,  or  a  face  like  this 

[Fixing  Ms  eye  on  GORDON. 
"Was  ne'er  an  hypocrite's  mask. 

[The  Groom  of  the  Chamber  takes  off  Ills  mantle, 
collar,  and  scarf. 

Wai.  Take  care — what  is  that  ? 

Groom  of  the  Chamber.  The  golden  chain  is  snapped  in 
two. 

Wai.  Well,  it  has  lasted  long  enough.    Here— give  it. 

[He  takes  and  looks  at  the  chain. 
'Twas  the  first  present  of  the  Emperor. 
I  le  hnng  it  round  me  in  the  war  of  Friule, 
lie  being  then  Archduke  ;  and  I  have  worn  it 

Till  now  from  habit 

From  superstition  if  you  will.    Belike 

It  was  to  be  a  Talisman  to  me, 

And  while  I  wore  it  on  my  neck  in  faith, 

It  was  to  chain  to  me  all  my  life  long, 

The  volatile  fortune,  whose  first  pledge  it  was. 

Well,  be  it  so  !     Henceforward  a  new  fortune 

Must  spring  up  for  me:  for  the  potency 

Of  this  charm  is  dissolved. 

[Groom  of  the  Chamber  retires  with  the  vestments. 
WALLENSTEIN  rises,  takes  a  stride  across  the  room, 
and  stands  at  last  before  GORDON  in  a  posture  of 
meditation. 

How  the  old  time  returns  upon  me !     I 
Behold  my  self  once  more  at  Burgaii,  where 
We  two  were  Pages  of  the  Court  together. 
We  oftentimes  disputed :  thy  intention 
Was  ever  good ;  but  thou  wcrt  wont  to  play 
The  Moralist  and  Preacher,  and  would'st  rail  at  me — 
That  I  strove  after  things  too  high  for  me, 
Giving  my  faith  to  bold  unlawful  dreams, 
And  still  extol  to  me  the  golden  mean. 
— Thy  wisdom  hath  been  proved  a  thriftless  friend 
To  thy  own  self.    See,  it  has  made  thee  early 
A  superannuated  man,  and  (but 
That  my  munificent  stars  will  intervene) 
Would  let  thee  in  some  miserable  corner 
Go  out,  like  an  unteuded  lamp. 

Gor.  My  Prince! 

With  light  heart  the  poor  fisher  moors  his  boat, 
And  watches  from  the  shore  the  lofty  ship 
Stranded  amid  the  storm. 

Wai.  Art  thou  already 

In  harbour,  then,  old  man  ?    Well !  I  am  not. 
The  uuconquered  spirit  drives  me  o'er  liic's  billows  ;    . 


414  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

My  planks  still  firm,  my  canvas  swelling  proudly. 
Hope  is  my  goddess  still,  and  Youth  my  inmate; 
And  while  we  stand  thus  front  to  front  almost, 
I  might  presume  to  say,  that  the  swift  years 
Have  passed  by  powerless  o'er  my  nnblanched  hair. 

[He  moves  with  long  strides  across  the  saloon,  and  re- 
mains on  the  opposite  side  over  against  GORDON. 
Who  now  persists  in  calling  Fortune  fiilsef 
To  me  she  has  proved  faithful,  •with  fond  love 
Took  me  from  out  the  common  ranks  of  men, 
And  like  a  mother  goddess,  with  strong  arm 
Carried  me  swiftly  up  the  steps  of  life. 
Nothing  is  common  in  my  destiny, 
Nor  in  the  furrows  of  my  hand.     Who  dares 
Interpret  then  my  life  for  me  as  'twere 
One  of  the  undistinguishable  many  ? 
True  in  this  present  moment  I  appear 
Fallen  low  indeed :  but  I  shall  rise  again. 
The  high  flood  will  soon  follow  on  this  ebb; 
The  fountain  of  my  fortune,  which  now  stops 
Repressed  and  bound  by  some  malicious  star, 
Will  soon  in  joy  play  forth  from  all  its  pipes. 

Gor.  And  yet  remember  I  the  good  old  proverb, 
"Let  the  night  come  before  we  praise  the  day." 
I  would  be  slow  from  long-continued  fortune 
To  gather  hope  :  for  Hope  is  the  companion 
Given  to  the  unfortunate  by  pitying  Heaven. 
Fear  hovers  round  the  head  of  prosperous  men, 
For  still  unsteady  are  the  scales  of  fate. 

Wai.  (smiling.)"  I  hear  the  very  Gordon  that  of  o1  1 
Was  wont  to  preach  to  me,  now  once  more  preacliinj; 
I  know  well,  that  all  sublunary  things 
Are  still  the  vassals  of  vicissitude. 
The  uupropitious  gods  demand  their  tribute. 
This  long  ago  the  ancient  Pagans  knew : 
And  therefore  of  their  own  accord  they  offered 
To  themselves  injuries,  so  to  atone 
The  jealousy  of  their  divinities  : 
And  human  sacrifices  bled  to  Typhon. 

[After  a  pause,  serious,  and  in  a  more  subdued  mannrr. 
I  too  have  sacrific'd  to  him — For  mo 
There  fell  the  dearest  friend,  and  through  my  fault 
He  fell !    No  joy  from  favourable  fortune 
Can  overweigh  the  anguish  of  this  stroke. 
The  envy  of  my  destiny  is  glutted : 
Life  pays  for  life.     On  this  pure  head  the  lightning 
Was  drawn  off  which  would  else  have  shattered  me. 

SCENE  III.— To  these  enter  SENI. 
Wai.  Is  not  that  Seni  ?  and  beside  himself, 
If  one  may  trust  his  looks !     What  brings  thee  hither 
At  this  late  hour,  Baptistaf 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIX.  415 

Seni.  Terror,  Duke ! 

On  thy  account. 

Wai.  What  now  ? 

Sent.  Flee  ere  the  day-break ! 

Trust  not  thy  person  to  the  Swedes ! 

Wai  What  now 

Is  in  thy  thoughts  ?  [Swedes! 

Seni.  (with  louder  voice.)    Trust  not  thy  person  to  these 

tral  What  is  it  then? 

Seni.  (still  more  urgently.)  O  wait  not  the  arrival  of  these 

Swedes. 

An  evil  near  at  hand  is  threatening  thee 
From  false  friends.     All  the  signs  stand  full  of  horror! 
Near,  near  at  hand  the  net-work  of  perdition — 
Yea,  even  now  'tis  being  cast  around  thee ! 

Wai.  Baptista,  thou  art  dreaming ! — Fear  befools  thee. 

Seni.  Believe  not  that  an  empty  fear  deludes  uie. 
Come,  read  it  in  the  planetary  aspects  ; 
Read  it  thyself,  that  ruin  threatens  thee 
From  false  friends! 

Wai.  From  the  falseness  of  my  friends 

Has  risen  the  whole  of  my  unprosperous  fortunes. 
The  warning  should  have  come  before  !    At  present 
I  need  no  revelation  from  the  stars 
To  know  that. 

Seni.  Come  and  see  !  trust  thine  own  eyes! 

A  fearful  sign  stands  in  the  house  of  life 
An  enemy  ;  a  fiend  lurks  close  behind 
The  radiance  of  thy  planet  -  O  be  warned! 
Deliver  not  thyself  up  to  these  heathens 
To  wage  a  war  against  our  holy  church.  [yes!    Now 

Wai.  (laughing  gently.)    The  oracle  rails  that  way !     Yes, 
I  recollect.    This  junction  with  the  Swedes 
Did  never  please  thee — lay  thyself  to  sleep, 
Baptista !     Signs  like  these  I  do  not  fear. 

Cor.  (who  during  the  whole  of  this  dialogue  lias  shown  marks 
of  extreme  agitation,  and  now  turns  to  WALLENSTEIN.) 
My  Duke  and  General !  May  I  dare  presume  ? 

Wai  Speak  freely. 

Gor.  What?  if  'twere  no  mere  creation 

Of  fear,  if  God's  high  providence  vouchsaf'd 
To  interpose  its  aid  for  your  deliverance, 
And  made  that  mouth  i  ts  organ. 

Wai  Ye're  both  feverish! 

How  can  mishap  come  to  me  from  the  S^des  ? 
They  sought  this  junction  with  me — 'tis  their  interest. 

Gor.  (with  difficulty  suppressing  his  emotion.)    But  what  if 

the  arrival  of  these  Swedes — 
What  if  this  were  the  very  thing  that  winged 
The  ruin  that  is  flying  to  your  temples  f 

I  Fling  s  himself  at  his  feet. 
There  is  yet  time,  my  Prince. 


416  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Scni.  O  hear  him !  hear  him ! 

Gor.  (rises.)  The  Rhinegrave's  still  far  off.     dive  but  the 

This  citadel  shall  close  ita  gates  upon  him.  [orders, 

If  then  he  will  besiege  us,  let  him  try  it. 

But  this  I  say;  he'll  find  his  own  destruction 

With  his  whole  force  before  these  ramparts,  sooner 

Than  weary  down  the  valour  of  our  spirit. 

He  shall  experience  what  a  band  of  heroes, 

Inspirited  by  an  heroic  leader, 

Is  able  to  perform.    And  if  indeed 

It  be  thy  serious  wish  to  make  amend 

For  that  which  thou  hast  done  amiss, — this,  this 

Will  touch  and  reconcile  the  Emperor, 

Who  gladly  turns  his  heart  to  thoughts  of  mercy, 

And  Friedlaud,  who  returns  repentant  to  him, 

Will  stand  yet  higher  in  his  Emperor's  favour, 

Then  e'er  he  stood  when  he  had  never  fallen. 

Wai.  (contemplates  him  with  surprise,  remains  silent  aicJiile, 
"betraying  strong  emotion.)  Gordon — your  zeal  and  fer- 
vour lead  you  far. 

Well,  well — an  old  friend  has  a  privilege. 

Blood,  Gordon,  has  been  flowing.    Never,  never 

Can  the  Emperor  pardon  me :  and  if  he  could, 

Yet  I — I  ne'er  could  let  myself  bo  pardoned. 

Had  I  foreknown  what  now  has  taken  place, 

That  lie,  my  dearest  friend,  would  fall  for  me, 

My  first  death-offering:  and  had  the  heart 

Spoken  to  me,  as  now  it  has  done — Gordon, 

It  may  be,  I  might  have  bethought  myself. 

It  may  ho  too,  I  might  not.    Might,  or  might  not, 

Is  now  an  idle  question.    All  too  seriously 

Has  it  begun  to  end  in  nothing,  Gordon! 

Let  it  then  have  its  course.  [Stepping  to  the  window. 

All  dark  and  silent — at  the  castle  too 

All  is  now  hushed — Light  me,  Chamberlain ! 

[The  Groom  of  the  Chamber,  who  had  entered  (In ring 
the  lait  dialogue,  and  had  been  standing  at  a  di»lan<r, 
and  listening  to  it  «v'//t  visible  expressions  of  the  ('<"i>c*t 
interest,  advances  in  extreme  agitation,  and  throws 
himself  at  the  DUKE'S  feet. 

And  thou,  too !    But  I  know  why  thou  dost  wish 

My  reconcilement  with  the  Emperor. 

Poor  man  !  ho  hath  a  small  estate  in  Carnthcn, 

And  fears  it  will  bo  forfeited  because 

He's  in  my  servic^.    Am  I  then  so  poor, 

That  I  no  longer  can  indemnify 

My  servants?    Well!     To  no  one  I  employ 

Means  of  compulsion.     If  His  thy  belief 

That  fortune  has  fled  from  me,  go!     Forsake  me. 

This  night  for  the  last  time  niayst  thou  unrobe  me, 

And  then  go  over  to  thy  Emperor. 

Gordon,  good  night  I     I  think  to  make  a  long 

* _ 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  417 

Sleep  of  it :  for  the  struggle  and  tlie  turmoil 

Of  this  last  day  or  two  was  great.    May't  please  you ! 

Take  care  that  they  awake  me  riot  too  early. 

[Exit  WALLENSTEIN,  the  Groom  of  the  Chamber  lifjht- 
ing  him.  SENi/oWows,  GORDON  remains  on  the  dark- 
ened stage,  following  the  DUKE  with  his  eye,  till  he 
disappears  at  the  farther  end  of  the  gallery :  then  by 
his  gestures  the  old  man  expresses  the  depth  of  his 
anguish,  and  stands  leaning  against  a  pillar. 

SCENE  IV.— GORDON,  BUTLER  (at  first  behind  the  scenes). 

But.  (not  yet  come  into  view  of  the  stage.)    Here  stand  in 
silence  till  I  give  the  signal.  [derers. 

Gor.  (starts  up.)  'Tis  he,  he  has  already  brought  the  mur- 

But.  The  lights  are  out.  All  lies  in  profound  sleep. 
•  Gor.  What  shall  I  do,  shall  I  attempt  to  save  him  f 
Shall  I  call  up  the  house  ?  Alarm  the  guards  ?  ' 

But.  (appears,  but  scarcely  on  the  stage.)  A  light  gleams 

hither  from  the  corridor. 
It  leads  directly  to  the  Duke's  bed-chamber. 

Gor.  But  then  I  break  my  oath  to  the  Emperor ! 
If  he  escape  and  strengthen  the  enemy, 
Do  I  not  hereby  call  down  on  my  head 
All  the  dread  consequences  ? 

But.  (stepping  forward)  Hark!    Who  speaks  there  ? 

Gor.  ;Tis  better,  I  resign  it  to  the  hands 
Of  providence.    For  what  am  I,  that  / 
Should  take  upon  myself  so  great  a  deed  ? 
/  have  not  murdered  him,  if  he  be  murdered ; 
But  all  his  rescue  were  my  act  and  deed; 
Mine — and  whatever  be  the  consequences, 
I  must  sustain  them. 

But.  (advances.)        I  should  know  that  voice. 

Gor.  Butler! 

But.  'Tis  Gordon.    What  do  you  want  hero  ? 

Was  it  so  late  then,  when  the  Duke  dismissed  you  ? 

Gor.  Your  hand  bound  up  and  in  a  scarf/ 

But.  'Tis  wounded. 

That  Illo  fought  as  he  was  frantic,  till 
At  last  we  threw  him  on  the  ground. 

Gor.  (shuddering.)  Both  dead? 

But.  Is  he  in  bed? 

Gor.  Ah,  Butler! 

But.  -  Is  he  ?  speak. 

Gor.  He  shall  not  perish!  Not  through  you!  The  Heaven 
Refuses  your  arm.     See — 'tis  wounded ! — 

But.  There  is  no  need  of  my  arm. 

Gor.  The  most  guilty 

Have  perished,  and  enough  is  given  to  justice. 

[The  Groom  of  the  Chamber  advances  from  the  gallery 
with  Ms  finger  on  his  mouth,  commanding  silence. 

Gor.  He  sleeps !    O  murder  not  the  holy  sleep ! 


418  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEiN. 

But.  No !  he  shall  die  awake.  [7s  going. 

Gor.  His  heart  still  cleaves 

To  earthly  things :  he's  not  prepared  to  step 
Into  the  presence  of  his  God ! 

But.  (going.)  God's  merciful 

Gor.  (holds  him.)  Grant  him  but  this  night's  respite. 

But.  (hurrying  off.)  The  next  moment 

May  ruin  all. 

Gor.  (holds  him  still.)  One  hour! 

But.  Unholdme!    What 

Can  that  short  respite  profit  him ! 

Gor.  O — Time 

Works  miracles.     In  one  hour  many  thousands 
Of  grains  of  saiid  run  out ;  and  quick  as  they 
Thought  follows  thought  within  the  human  soul. 
Only  one  hour !     Your  heart  may  change  its  purpose, 
His  heart  may  change  its  purpose — some  new  tidings 
May  come ;  some  fortunate  e^rent,  decisive. 
May  fall  from  Heaven  and  rescue  him.     O  what 
May  not  one  hour  achieve! 

But.  You  but  remind  me, 

How  precious  every  minute  is!  [Be  stamps  on  the  floor. 

SCENE   V.— To  these  enter  MACDONALD,  and  DEVEREUX, 
with  the  Halberdiers. 

Gor.  (throwing  Inmself  between  him  and  them.)  No,  monster! 
First  over  my  dead  bo  ly  thou  shalt  tread. 
I  will  not  live  to  see  the  accursed  deed ! 
But.  (forcing  him  out  of  the  way.)  Weak-hearted  dotard! 

[  Trunijtcls  fire  heard  in  the  distance. 

Dcv.  and  Mac.  '    Hark!  The  Swedish  trumpets! 

The  Swedes  before  the  ramparts !    Let  us  hasten ! 

Gor.  (rushes  out.)  O  God  of  Mercy! 

But.  (calling  after  him. )  Governor,  to  your  post! 

Groom  of  the  Chamber  (hurries  in.)  Who  dares  make  larum 
here?    Hush!    The  Duke  sleeps.  [make  larum. 

Dev.  (ivith  loud  harsh  voice.)   Friend,  it  is  time  now  to 
Groom  of  the  Chamber.  Help 

Murder ! 

But.  Down  with  him ! 

Groom  of  the  Chamber  (run  through  the  body  by  DKVE- 
REUX,  falls  at  the  entrance  of  the  gallery.)  .Jesus  Maria ! 
But.  Burst  the  doors  open!) 

[T/K-y  rush  over  the  body  into  the  gallery — two  doors  arc 
heard  to  wash  one  after  the  other —  Voices  deadened 
by  the  distance — Clash  of  amis — then  all  at  once  a 
profound  nilence. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  419 


SCENE  VI. 

Countess  Tertsky  (with  a  light.')  Her  bed-chamber  is  empty; 

sbe  herself 

Is  nowhere  to  be  found  !    The  Neubruun  too, 
Who  watched  by  her,  is  missing.     If  she  should 
Be  flown — But  whither  flown  f    We  must  call  up 
Every  soul  iu  the  house.     How  will  the  Duke 
Bear  up  against  these  worst  bad  tidings  ?    O 
If  that  my  husband  now  were  but  returned 
Home  from  the  banquet:  Hark  !  I  wonder  whether 
The  Duke  is  still  awake  I    I  thought  I  heard 
Voices  and  tread  of  feet  here !    I  will  go 
And  listen  at  the  door.    Hark !    What  is  that  ? 
'Tis  hastening  up  the  steps  I 


SCEXE  VII. — COUNTESS,  GORDON. 

Gor.  (rushes  in  out  of  breath.)    7Tis  a  mistake, 
'Tis  not  the  Swedes — Ye  must  proceed  no  further — 
Butler !    O  God  !    Where  is  he  ? 

[Then  observing  the  COUNTESS. 

Countess !    Say 

Coun,  You  are  come  then  from  the  castle  ?  Where's  my 

husband  ? 
Gor.  (in  an  agony  of  affright.)   Your  husband! — Ask  not! 

To  the  Duke 

Coun.  Not  till 

You  have  discovered  to  me 

Gor.  On  this  moment 

Does  the  world  hang.     For  God's  sake !  to  the  Duke. 

While  we  are  speaking [  Calling  loudly. 

Butler!  Butler!  God! 
Coun.  Why,  he  is  at  the  castle  with  my  husband, 

[BUTLER  comes  from  the  gallery. 
Gor.  'Twns  a  mistake — 'Tis  not  the  Swedes — it  is 
The  Imperialist's  Lieutenant-General 
Has  sent  me  hither,  will  be  here  himself 
Instantly. — You  must  not  proceed. 

But.  He  comes 

Too  Jate  [GORDON  dashes  himself  against  the  wall. 

Gor.   O  God  of  mercy ! 
Coun.  What  too  late  I 

Who  will  be  here  himself?    Octavio 
In  Egra  f    Treason!    Treason !    Where's  the  Duke  ? 

[She  rushes  to  the  gallery. 


420  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


SCENE  VIII. — (Servants  run  across  the  stage  full  of  terror. 
The  whole  Scene  must  be  spoken  entirely  without pause*.) 

Seni.  (from  the  gallery.}  O  bloody  frightful  deed  ! 

Conn.  What  is  it,  Seni  ? 

Page,  (from  the  gallery.}  O  piteous  sight ! 

[  Other  Servants  hasten  in  with  torches. 
Coun.  What  is  it  ?    For  God's  sake! 
Seni.  And  do  yon  ask  ? 

Within  the  Duke  lies  murder'd — and  your  husband 
Assassinated  at  the  Castle. 

[The  COUNTESS  stands  motionless. 
Female  Servant,  (rushing  across  the  stage.)  Help!    Help! 

the  Duchess! 

Burgomaster,  (enters.)  What  means  these  confused 
Loud  cries,  that  wake  the  sleepers  of  this  house  f 

Gor.  Your  house  is  cursed  to  all  eternity. 
In  your  house  doth  the  Duke  lie  murdered ! 

Bur.  (rushing  cut.)  Heaven  forbid! 

1st  Ser.  Fly !  fly !  they  murder  us  all ! 

2nd  Ser.  (carrying  silver  plate.)         That  way!    The  lower 

Passages  are  blocked  up.  [tenant  General! 

Voice,  (from  behind  the  Scene.)  Make  room  for  the  Lieu- 

\_At  these  words  the  COUNTESS  starts  from  her  stupor, 

collects  herself,  and  retires  suddenly. 

Voice,  (from  behind  the  Scene.)    Keep  back  the  people! 
Guard  the  dooi ! 


SCENE  IX. — To  these  enters  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI  with  all 
his  train.  At  the  same  time  DEVEREUX  and  MAC- 
DONALD  enter  from  out  the  Corridor  with  the  Halber- 
diers. WALLKNSTEIN'S  dead  body  is  carried  orcr  the 
back  part  of  the  stage,  ivrapped  in  a  piece  of  ciimson 
tapestry. 

Oct.  (entering  abruptly.)  It  must  not  be !  It  is  not  possible! 
Butler !  Gordon  ! 
I'll  not  believe  it.    Say  no ! 

[GORDON,  without  answering, points  with  his  hand  to  the 

body  of  WALLENSTEIN  as  it  is  carried  over  the  hack 

of  the  stage.     OCTAVIO  look*  that  way,  and'  stands 

overpowered  icith  horror.  [sword  — 

Dcv.  (to  BUTLER.)  Here  is  the  golden  fleece— the  Dukrs 

Mac.  Is  it  your  order — 

Rut.  (pointing  to  OCTAVIO.)  Here  stands  he  who  now 
Hath  the  sole  power  to  issue  orders. 

[DEVEREUX  and  MACDONALD  retire  with  marks  of 
obeisance.  One  drops  away  after  the  other,  tili  only 
BUTLER,  OCTAVIO  and  GORDON  remain  on  tile 
stage. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  421 

Oct.  (turning  to  BUTLER.)  Was  that  my  purpose,  Butler, 
when  we  parted  ? 

0  God  of  Justice! 

To  thee  I  lift  my  hand !     I  am  not  guilty 
Of  this  foul  deed. 

But.  Your  hand  is  pure.    You  have 

Availed  yourself  of  mine. 

Oct.  Merciless  man ! 

Thus  to  abuse  the  orders  of  thy  Lord — 
And  stain  thy  Emperor's  holy  name  with  murder, 
With  bloody,  most  accursed  assassination?  [tence. 

But.  (calmly.)  I've  but  fulfilled  the  Emperor's  own  sen- 

Oct.  O  curse  of  Kings, 
Infusing  a  dread  life  into  their  words, 
And  linking  to  the  sudden  transient  thought 
The  unchangeable  irrevocable  deed. 
Was  there  necessity  for  such  an  eager 
Despatch  ?    Could'st  thou  not  grant  the  merciful 
A  time  for  mercy?    Time  is  man's  good  Angel. 
To  leave  no  interval  between  the  sentence, 
And  the  fulfilment  of  it,  doth  beseem 
God  only,  the  immutable  ! 

But.  For  what 

Rail  you  against  me  ?    What  is  my  offence  T 
The  Empire  from  a  fearful  enemy 
Have  I  delivered,  and  expect  reward. 
The  single  difference  betwixt  you  and  me 
Is  this  :  you  placed  the  arrow  in  the  bow ; 

1  pulled  the  string.    You  sow'd  blood,  and  yet  stand 
Astonished  that  blood  is  come  up.    I  always 
Knew  what  I  did,  and  therefore  no  result 

Hath  power  to  frighten  or  surprise  my  spirit. 

Have  you  aught  else  to  order;  for  thi§  instant 

I  make  my  best  speed  to  Vienna ;  place 

My  bleeding  sword  before  my  Emperor's  Throne, 

And  hope  to  gain  the  applause  which  undelaying 

And  punctual  obedience  may  demand  t 

From  a  just  judge.  [Exit  BUTLER. 

SCENE  X. — To  these  enter  the  COUNTESS  TERTSKY,  pale  and 
disordered.  Her  utterance  is  slow  and  feeble,  and  unim- 
passioned. 

Oct.  (meeting  her.)  O  Countess  Tertsky !    These  are  the 

results 
Of  luckless  nnblest  deeds. 

Coun.  They  are  the  fruits 

Of  your  contrivances.    The  Duke  is  dead, 
My  husband  too  is  dead,  the  Duchess  struggles 
In  the  pangs  of  death,  my  niece  has  disappeared. 
This  house  of  splendour,  and  of  princely  glory, 
Doth  now  stand  desolated :  the  affrighted  servants 


422  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Bush  forth  through  all  its  doors.    I  am  the  last 

Therein  ;  I  shut  it  up,  and  here  deliver 

The  keys.  [desolate. 

Oct.  (with  a  deep  anguish.)  O  Countess !  my  house  too  is 

Conn.  Who  next  is  to  be  murdered  ?    Who  is  next 
To  be  maltreated  f    Lo !  The  Duke  is  dead. 
The  Emperor's  vengeance  may  be  pacified  ! 
Spare  the  old  servants;  let  not  their  fidelity 
Be  imputed  to  the  faithful  as  a  crime — 
The  evil  destiny  surprised  my  brother 
Too  suddenly  :  he  could  not  think  on  them. 

Oct.  Speak  not  of  vengeance !  Speak  not  of  maltreatment! 
The  Emperor  is  appeased ;  the  heavy  fault 
Hath  heavily  been  expiated — nothing 
Descended  from  the  father  to  the  daughter, 
Except  his  glory  and  his  services. 
The  Empress  honours  your  adversity, 
Takes  part  in  your  afflictions,  opens  to  you 
Her  motherly  arms  !    Therefore  no  farther  fears ! 
Yield  yourself  up  in  hope  and  confidence 
To  the  Imperial  Grace! 

Conn,  (with  her  eye  raised  to  heaven.)  To  the  grace  and 

mercy  of  a  greater  Master 
Do  I  yield  up  myself.     Where  shall  the  body 
Of  the  Duke  have  its  place  of  final  rest  ? 
In  the  Chartreuse,  which  he  himself  did  found 
At  Gitschin  rests  the  Countess  Wallenstein  j 
And  by  her  side,  to  whom  he  was  indebted 
For  his  first  fortunes,  gratefully  he  wished 
He  might  sometime  repose  in  death?    O  let  him 
Be  buried  there.    And  likewise,  for  my  husband's 
Remains,  I  ask  the  like  grace.    The  Emperor 
Is  now  proprietor  of  all  our  Castles. 
This  sure  may  well  be  granted  us— one  sepulchre 
Beside  the  sepulchres  of  our  forefathers ! 

Oct.  Countess,  you  tremble,  you  turn  pale  ! 

Coun.  (reassembles  all  her  powers,  and  speaks  with  enerfjif 
and  dignity.)  You  think' 

More  worthily  of  me,  than  to  believe 
I  would  survive  the  downfall  of  my  house. 
We  did  not  hold  ourselves  too  mean  to  grasp 
After  a  monarch's  crown — the  crown  did  fate 
Deny,  but  not  the  feeling  and  the  spirit 
That  to  the  crown  belong!     We  deem  a 
Courageous  death  more  worthy  of  our  free  station 
Than  a  dishonoured  life. — I  have  taken  poUoii. 

Oct.  Help  !  Help !  Support  her  1 

Coun.  Nay,  it  is  too  late.    [TESS. 

In  a  few  moments  is  my  fate  accomplished.       [Exit  Coux- 

Gov.  O  house  of  death  and  horrors ! 

[An  Officer  enters,  and  brings  a  letter  with  the  great 
scat.    GORDON  steps  forward  and  meets  him. 


THE    DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.  423 

What  is  this  ? 
It  is  the  Imperial  Seal. 

[He  reads  the  Address,  and  delivers  the  letter  to  OCTA- 
Vio,  with  a  look  of  reproach,  and  with  an  emphasis 
on  the  word. 
To  the  TVtflcePiccolomini. 

[OcTAVio  with  his  whole  frame  expressive  of  sudden 
anguish,  raises  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

[THE  CURTAIN  DROPS.] 


THE  END. 


GENERAL  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA— BERKELEY 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or  on  the 

date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  sutuect  gj  immediate  recall. 


•;• 


3  ^954  Ul 


1956  L» 


70d'6lTD| 
U  LD 


DEC  10  1961 
DEC  14  1965  7 


LD  21-100m-l, '54(1887sl6)476 


HOM 


YB  13645 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


